L 


WOOD 


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P-HOPKINSON-SMITf: 


LIBRARY 

University   of   California     .> 


Mac  had  the  floor  this  afternc 


THE   WOOD 
FIRE  IN   No.  3 


BY 


F.   HOPKINSON    SMITH 


ILLUSTRATED   IN   COLORS   BY 
ALONZO    KIMBALL 


CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S   SONS 
NEW   YORK  ::  1905 


PS 


1905 


Copyright,    1905,  by 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


Published,    October,   igoj 


A   WORD   OF  WELCOME: 

To  those  of  you  who  love  an  easy  chair, 
a  mug,  a  pipe,  and  a  story;  to  whom  a 
well-swept  hearth  is  a  delight  and  the 
cheery  crackle  of  hickory  logs  a  joy ;  the 
touch  of  whose  elbows  sends  a  thrill  through 
responsive  hearts  and  whose  genial  talk  but 
knits  the  circle  the  closer^ — as  well  as  those 
gentler  spirits  who  are  content  to  listen — 
how  rare  they  are! — do  I  repeat  Sandy 
MacWhirters  hearty  invitation:  "Draw 
up,  draw  up!  By  the  gods,  but  I'm  glad 
to  see  you  !  Get  a  pipe.  The  tobacco  is 
in  the  yellow  jar." 

Tours  warmly, 

THE  BACK  LOG. 

THE   HEARTH, 

Room  No.  3,  Old  Building, 

October,   1905. 


CONTENTS 

Page 

/.    In  which  Certain  Details  regarding 

a  Lost  Opal  are  set  Forth  i 

II.    Wherein  the  Gentle  Art  of  Dining 

is  Variously  Described  37 

///.    With  Especial  Reference  to  a  Girl 

in  a  Steamer  Chair  64 

IV.    With    a    Detailed    Account    of  a 

Dangerous  Footpad  92 

V.    In  which  Bows  Becomes  Dramatic 

oo 

and  Relates  a  'Tale  of  Blood       128 
[vii] 


CONTENTS 


Page 

VI.  Wherein  Mac  Dilates  on  the 
Human  Side  of  "His  Wor 
ship,  the  Chief  Justice"  and 
his  Fellow  Dogs  164 

VII.  Containing  Mr.  Alexander  Mac- 
Whirter  s  Views  on  Lord 
Ponsonby,  Major  Yancey,  and 
their  Kind  193 

VIII.  In  which  Murphy  and  Lonnegan 
Introduce  Some  Mysterious 
Characters  23 1 

IX.    Around  the  Embers  of  the  Dying 

Fire  273 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

7-~n>»t  i/nnviHffs  in  color  l>v  Alsnzo  Kimball 


Alac   bad  the  floor   this   afternoon  Frontispiece 

Facing 
page 

MacJf'hirter  8 

But    the  perfume   of  the  violets   and  the  way 

she  looked  at   me  62 

The    men    pressed   closer    to    look.      "  Roses,    on 

a  man   like   him!"  88 

Not  a  tramp  ;  rather  a  good-looking,  well- 
mannered  man,  who  had  evidently  seen 
better  da\s  106 

Again    his  fingers    tightened',    my    breath    was 

going  162 

"  It's  a   better  advertisement  than  two  columns 

in   a  morning  paper"  1  68 

Pushed  the   Engineer  into   the  salon  268 

Around  the  embers   of  the  dying  fire  274 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No. 


PART    I 

In  which  Certain  Details  regarding  a  Lost 
Opal  are  Set  Forth. 

SANDY  MAcWHIRTER  would  have  an 
open  fire.  He  had  been  brought  up  on 
blazing  logs  and  warm  hearths,  and  could 
not  be  happy  without  them.  In  his  own  boy 
hood's  home  the  fireplace  was  the  shrine,  and 
half  the  orchard  and  two  big  elms  had  been 
offered  up  on  its  altar. 

There  was  no  chimney  in  No.  3  when  he 
moved  in — no  place  really  to  put  one,  unless 
he  knocked  a  hole  in  the  roof,  started  a  fire 
on  the  bare  floor,  and  sat  around  it  wigwam 
fashion;  nor  was  there  any  way  of  support- 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

ing  the  necessary  brickwork,  unless  a  start 
was  made  from  the  basement  up  through 
every  room  to  No.  3  and  so  on  to  the  roof. 
But  trifling  obstacles  like  these  never  daunted 
MacWhirter.  Lonnegan,  a  Beaux  Arts  man, 
who  built  the  big  Opera  House,  and  who  also 
hungered  for  blazing  logs,  solved  the  diffi 
culty.  It  was  only  a  matter  of  fifteen  feet 
from  where  Mac's  easel  stood  to  the  roof  of 
the  building  that  sheltered  him,  and  it  was 
not  many  days  before  Lonnegan's  foreman 
had  a  hole  in  the  roof  and  a  wide  and  spa 
cious  chimney  breast  rising  from  Mac's  floor, 
which  filled  the  opening  in  the  ceiling  and 
rose  some  ten  feet  above  it,  the  whole  rest 
ing  on  an  iron  plate  bolted  to  four  upright 
iron  rods  which  were  in  turn  bolted  to  two 
heavy  timbers  laid  flat  on  the  roof.  Lonne 
gan's  men  did  the  work,  and  Lonnegan  set 
tled  with  the  landlord  and  forgot  ever  after 
ward  to  send  Mac  the  bill,  and  hasn't  to 
this  day. 

[2] 


REGARDING    A    LOST    OPAL 

No  one  else  inside  the  four  walls  of  the 
Old  Building  had  any  such  comfort.  All  the 
other  denizens  had  heaters;  or  choked-up, 
shivering,  contracted  grates;  or  a  half-stran 
gled  flue  from  the  basement  below.  Poor 
Pitkin  relied  on  a  rubber  tube  fastened  to  his 
gas  light,  which  was  connected  with  a  sort  of 
Chinese  tea-caddy  of  a  stove  propped  up  on 
four  legs,  and  which  was  shifted  about  so  as 
to  thaw  out  the  coldest  spots  in  his  studio. 

It  was  a  great  day  when  Mac's  fireplace 
was  completed.  Everybody  crowded  in  to 
see  it — not  only  the  men  from  below  and  on 
the  same  floor,  but  half  a  dozen  and  more 
cronies  from  the  outside.  No  one  believed 
Lonnegan's  yarn  about  the  bolts,  so  natural 
and  old-timey  did  the  fireplace  seem,  until  the 
great  architect  picked  the  plaster  away  with 
his  knife  and  showed  them  the  irons,  and 
even  then  one  doubting  Thomas  had  to  mount 
the  scuttle  stairs  and  peer  out  through  the 
trap-door  before  he  was  convinced  that  mod- 
[3] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

ern  science  had  lent  a  helping  hand  to  recall 
a  boyhood  memory. 

And  the  friends  that  this  old  fire  had;  and 
the  way  the  men  loved  it  despite  the  liberties 
they  tried  to  take  with  it!  And  they  did,  at 
first,  take  liberties,  and  of  the  most  exasper 
ating  kind  to  any  well-intentioned,  law-abid 
ing,  and  knowledgeable  wood  fire.  Boggs, 
the  animal  painter,  whose  studio  lay  imme 
diately  beneath  MacWhirter's,  was  never,  at 
first,  satisfied  until  he  had  punched  it  black 
in  the  face;  Wharton,  who  occupied  No.  4, 
across  the  hall,  would  insist  that  each  log 
should  be  stood  on  its  head  and  the  kindling 
grouped  about  it;  while  Pitkin,  the  sculptor, 
who  occupied  the  basement  because  of  his 
dirty  clay  and  big  chunks  of  marble,  was  mis 
erable  until  he  had  jammed  the  back-log  so 
tight  against  the  besmoked  chimney  that  not 
a  breath  of  air  could  get  between  it  and  the 
blackened  bricks. 

But  none  of  these  well-meant  but  inexperi- 
[4] 


REGARDING    A    LOST    OPAL 

enced  attacks  ever  daunted  the  spirit  of  this 
fire.  It  would  splutter  a  moment  with  ill- 
concealed  indignation,  threatening  a  dozen 
times  to  go  out  in  smoke,  and  then  all  of 
a  sudden  a  little  bubble  of  laughing  flame 
would  break  out  under  one  end  of  a  log,  and 
then  another,  and  away  it  would  go  roaring 
up  the  chimney  in  a  very  ecstasy  of  delight. 

Now  and  then  it  would  talk  back;  I  have 
heard  it  many  a  time,  when  Mac  and  I  would 
be  sitting  alone  before  it  listening  to  its 
chatter. 

"Take  a  seat,"  it  would  crackle;  "right  in 
front,  where  I  can  warm  you.  Sit,  too,  where 
you  can  look  into  my  face  and  see  how  ruddy 
and  joyous  it  is.  I'll  not  bore  you;  I  never 
bored  anybody — never  in  all  my  life.  I  am 
an  endless  series  of  surprises,  and  I  am  never 
twice  alike.  I  can  sparkle  with  merriment, 
or  glow  with  humor,  or  roar  with  laughter, 
dependent  on  your  mood,  or  upon  mine.  Or 
I  can  smoulder  away  all  by  myself,  crooning 

[5] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

a  low  song  of  the  woods — the  song  your 
mother  loved,  your  cradle  song — so  full  of 
content  that  it  will  soothe  you  into  forget- 
fulness.  When  at  last  I  creep  under  my  gray 
blanket  of  ashes  and  shut  my  eyes,  you,  too, 
will  want  to  sleep — you  and  I,  old  friends 
now  with  our  thousand  memories." 

Only  MacWhirter  really  understood  its 
many  moods  -  -  "Alexander  MacWhirter, 
Room  No.  3,"  the  sign-board  read  in  the  hall 
below — and  only  MacWhirter  could  satisfy 
its  wants;  and  so,  after  the  first  few  months, 
no  one  dared  touch  it  but  our  host,  whose 
slightest  nudge  with  the  tongs  was  sufficient 
to  kindle  it  into  renewed  activity. 

It  was  not  long  after  this  that  a  certain 
sense  of  ownership  permeated  the  coterie. 
They  yielded  the  chimney  and  its  mechanical 
contrivances  to  MacWhirter  and  Lonnegan, 
but  the  blaze  and  its  generous  warmth  be 
longed  to  them  as  much  as  to  Mac.  Soon 
chairs  were  sent  up  from  the  several  studios, 
[6] 


REGARDING    A    LOST    OPAL 

each  member  of  the  half-circle  furnishing  his 
own — the  most  comfortable  he  owned.  Then 
the  mugs  followed,  and  the  pipe-racks,  and 
soon  Sandy  MacWhirter's  wood  fire  in 
No.  3  became  the  one  spot  in  the  building 
that  we  all  loved  and  longed  for. 

And  Mac  was  exactly  fashioned  for  High 
Priest  of  just  such  a  Temple  of  Jollity: 
Merry-eyed,  round-faced,  with  one  and  a 
quarter,  perhaps  one  and  a  half,  of  a  chin 
tucked  under  his  old  one — a  chin  though 
that  came  from  laughter,  not  from  laziness; 
broad-shouldered,  deep-chested,  hearty  in  his 
voice  and  words,  with  the  faintest  trace — 
just  a  trace,  it  was  so  slight — of  his  mother- 
tongue  in  his  speech;  whole-souled,  spontane 
ous,  unselfish,  ready  to  praise  and  never  to 
criticise;  brimming  with  anecdotes  and  ad 
ventures  of  forty  years  of  experience — on  the 
Riviera,  in  Sicily,  Egypt,  and  the  Far  East, 
wherever  his  brush  had  carried  him — he  had 
all  the  warmth  of  his  blazing  logs  in  his 
[7] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

grasp  and  all  the  snap  of  their  coals  in  his 
eyes. 

"By  the  Gods,  but  I'm  glad  to  see  you !" 
was  his  invariable  greeting.  "Draw  up! 
draw  up !  Go  get  a  pipe — the  tobacco  is  in 
the  yellow  jar." 

This  was  when  Mac  was  alone  or  when 
no  one  had  the  floor,  and  the  shuttlecock  of 
general  conversation  was  being  battledored 
about. 

If,  however,  Mac  or  any  of  his  guests  had 
the  floor,  and  was  giving  his  experience  at 
home  or  abroad,  or  was  reaching  the  climax 
of  some  tale,  it  made  no  difference  who  en 
tered  no  one  took  any  more  notice  of  him 
than  of  a  servant  who  had  brought  in  an 
extra  log,  the  lost  art  of  listening  still  being 
in  vogue  in  those  days  and  much  respected 
by  the  occupants  of  the  chairs — by  all  except 
Boggs,  who  would  always  break  into  the  con 
versation  irrespective  of  restrictions  or  tra 
ditions. 

[8] 


MacWbirter. 


REGARDING    A    LOST    OPAL 

Mac  had  the  floor  this  afternoon. 

I  knew  this  from  the  sound  of  his  voice 
through  the  half-closed  door  as  I  reached  the 
top-floor  landing. 

"Refused,  gentlemen,  refused  point  blank," 
I  heard  Mac  say.  "He  wouldn't  let  them 
search  him;  wouldn't  empty  his  pockets  as 
the  others  had  done;  it  made  a  most  dis 
agreeable  impression  on  every  one  at  the 
table.  Collins,  his  host,  was  amazed;  so  was 
Moulton." 

My  own  head  was  now  abreast  of  the  old 
Chinese  screen. 

"What  reason  did  he  give?"  Boggs  asked. 

"Didn't  give  any.  Just  hemmed  and 
hawed,  and  blushed  like  a  girl." 

I  was  inside  the  cosy  room  now,  its  air 
etched  with  wavy  lines  of  tobacco  smoke, 
showing  blue  in  the  dim  glare  of  the  sky 
light  overhead;  had  nodded  to  Boggs,  whose 
face  was  just  visible  over  the  top  of  Mac's 
most  comfortable  chair — Boggs  always  hides 
[9] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

his  bulk  in  this  particular  chair,  having  fur 
nished  none  of  his  own,  a  weakness  or  self 
ishness  which  we  all  recognize  and  permit — 
and  was  adding  my  snow-covered  coat  and 
hat  to  a  collection,  facing  the  blazing  logs, 
and  within  reach  of  their  genial  warmth, 
when  Mac's  voice  again  dominated  the  hum 
of  questioning  raised  by  the  half-circle  of 
toasting  shins. 

"Collins,  of  course,  never  said  a  word — 
how  could  he?  The  old  fellow  had  been 
his  friend  for  years;  went  to  school  with 
him.  Now,  gentlemen,  what  would  you  have 
thought?" 

It  was  easy  to  see  that  our  host  had  full 
possession  of  the  floor.  His  feet  were  firmly 
planted  on  the  half-worn  Daghestan,  his 
square,  erect  back  turned  to  the  crackling 
blaze,  his  head  raised,  arms  swinging,  hands 
extended,  accentuating  every  point  that  he 
made  with  that  peculiar  twist  of  the  thumb 
common  to  all  painters.  I  dropped  quietly 
[10] 


REGARDING    A    LOST    OPAL 

into  a  chair.  Better  keep  still  and  smoke  on 
with  my  ear-shutters  fastened  back  and  my 
eyes  fixed  on  the  speaker's  face.  The  cue 
would  come  my  way  before  Mac  had  got 
very  far  in  his  story. 

Again  Mac  put  the  question,  this  time  in  a 
rising  voice,  demanding  an  answer. 

"What  would  you  have  thought?" 

"I  give  it  up,"  said  Pitkin.  "I  knew 
Peaslee.  Life  went  against  him,  but  that  old 
fellow  was  as  straight  as  a  string.  Why,  he 
has  been  book-keeper  for  that  bank  for  half 
a  century,  more  or  less;  I  used  to  keep  an 
account  there;  queer-looking  chap,  all  spec 
tacles." 

"Collins  must  have  put  the  jewel  in  his 
pocket  and  had  not  been  able  to  find  it,"  re 
marked  Ford,  discussion  now  being  in  order; 
"like  a  man  losing  his  railroad  ticket  and 
discovering  it  in  his  hat-band  after  he  has 
searched  every  part  of  his  clothes." 

"Old  fellow  was  short  in  his  balance  and 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

wanted  to  make  it  up,"  growled  Boggs. 
Boggs  did  not  mean  a  word  of  it,  but  it  was 
his  turn  and  he  must  hazard  an  opinion  of 
some  kind. 

Mac  smiled  and  a  laugh  went  round. 
Poor  old  Tim  Peaslee  stealing  Sam  Collins's 
or  anybody  else's  opal  to  straighten  out  a 
deficiency  in  his  account  was  about  as  absurd 
a  deduction  to  those  who  remembered  him, 
as  Diogenes  losing  his  lantern  in  the  effort 
to  scrape  acquaintance  with  a  thief. 

Marny,  his  face  blue-white  with  his  tramp 
through  the  snow,  and  Jack  Stirling,  in  a  new 
English  Macintosh,  now  entered,  shook  their 
wet  garments,  filled  their  pipes  from  the  yel 
low  jar,  and  dragged  up  chairs  to  join  the 
half-circle,  the  puffs  of  their  newly  filled  pipes 
adding  innumerable  wavy  lines  to  the  etched 
plate  of  the  atmosphere. 

"Mac  has  got  the  most  extraordinary  story, 
Marny,  that  you  ever  heard,"  cried  Whar- 
ton.  "What  do  you  think  of  old  Tim 
[12] 


REGARDING    A    LOST    OPAL 

Peaslee    helping    himself    to    Sam    Collins's 
jewelry?" 

"Never  heard  of  Peaslee  or  Collins  in  my 
life,"  answered  Marny,  dragging  his  chair 
closer  and  opening  his  chilled  fingers  to  the 
blaze.  "Jack  may,  he  knows  everybody — 
some  he  oughtn't  to.  Who  are  they,  burg 
lars  or  stockbrokers?" 

"Why,  Collins,  who  has  that  opal  mine  in 
Mexico.  Old  Tim  was  for  years  the  book 
keeper  of  the  Exeter  Bank.  You  must  have 
known  Peaslee,"  persisted  Wharton. 

Marny  shook  his  head,  and  Wharton 
turned  to  Mac. 

"Begin  all  over  again,  old  man,  and  we'll 
take  a  vote.  Marny's  head  is  as  thick  as  one 
of  his  backgrounds." 

"At  the  beginning?"  asked  MacWhirter, 
between  the  puffs  of  his  pipe,  freshly  lighted 
now  that  his  story  had  been  told. 

"Yes,  from  the  time  Sam  Collins  came  to 
New  York — everything." 
[13] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

Mac  laid  his  pipe  once  more  on  the  man 
tel,  threw  an  extra  stick  on  the  fire  from  the 
pile  by  the  chimney,  raked  the  ashes  clear  of 
the  front  log,  and  resumed  his  position  on 
the  rug.  Now  that  the  circle  was  larger  and 
he  had  been  challenged  to  give  every  detail 
he  intended  to  make  his  second  telling  of  the 
extraordinary  story  more  interesting,  if  pos 
sible,  than  the  first. 

"I'll  give  it  to  you  exactly  as  Collins  gave 
it  to  me;  and,  Boggs,  you  will  please  keep 
still  until  I  get  through.  Wharton,  change 
your  seat  so  you  can  clap  your  hand  over 
Boggs's  mouth  when  he  breaks  out.  Thanks. 

"About  two  years  ago  Sam  Collins  came 
back  to  New  York,  first  time  in  nearly  twenty 
years.  He  had  been  up  in  Peru  living  in  the 
clouds,  digging  for  copper  and  not  finding 
any,  he  told  me;  then  he  kept  on  to  Ceylon, 
wandered  around  there  for  a  while,  and 
finally  landed  at  Vera  Cruz  and  went  up 
into  Mexico,  until  he  struck  the  town  of 
[14] 


REGARDING    A    LOST    OPAL 

Queretaro.  You've  been  there,  Wharton;  I 
remember  your  sketch  of  the  old  Cathedral." 

Wharton  nodded,  and  settled  himself 
deeper  in  his  chair. 

"Shot  Maximilian  there,"  whispered  Boggs 
under  his  breath. 

Mac  glanced  savagely  at  Boggs,  but  con 
tinued: 

"On  taking  in  the  town  Collins  found  that 
everybody,  from  the  beggars  in  the  Plaza  to 
the  bankers  in  the  palaces,  had  their  pockets 
full  of  opals,  wads  and  wads  of  them,  some 
big  as  duck-shot,  some  big  as  birds'  eggs. 
Collins  is  an  expert  on  anything  that  comes 
out  of  the  ground,  and  the  next  morning  he 
was  astride  of  a  burro  and  off  to  the  mines, 
noting  how  the  minerals  lay  and  the  dip  of 
the  land,  and  the  next  week  he  was  away 
prospecting,  and  before  the  month  was  out 
he  had  bought  a  hill  that  was  as  bare  as  your 
hand  of  everything  but  bunch  grass  and  sand 
fleas,  and  had  ten  half-breeds  at  work,  and 
[15] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

by  the  end  of  the  year  he  had  struck  hard- 
pan,  with  enough  opals  lying  around  loose  to 
make  him  rich.  This  was  two  years  ago, 
remember.  Pretty  soon  Sam  discovered  that 
he  needed  more  money  to  develop  his  mine, 
and  he  started  for  New  York  to  look  up  his 
old  friends  to  help  him  raise  it. 

"When  Collins  arrived  he  found  that  a  lot 
of  things  could  happen  in  twenty  years:  half 
of  his  friends  were  dead;  some  were  scattered 
over  the  world,  wandering  as  he  had  been; 
and  out  of  fifty  or  more  old  chums  who  had 
known  him  at  college  only  a  dozen  or  more 
were  left.  Tim  Peaslee  was  one  of  them. 

"Sam  loved  Tim;  he  always  had.  For 
years  they  had  kept  up  their  letters;  then  Tim 
lost  track  of  Collins,  and  communication 
ceased.  All  the  way  to  New  York  Collins 
was  thinking  of  Tim.  If  he  was  rich,  they'd 
go  in  together  on  the  mine;  and  if  he  was 
poor,  he'd  share  what  he  had  with  him.  The 
Tim  he  loved  was  not  the  kind  of  man  to 
[16] 


REGARDING    A    LOST    OPAL 

shake  hands  with.  His  Tim  was  the  sort  of 
a  fellow  to  hug  and  keep  your  hand  on  his 
knee  while  you  talked  to  him. 

"Sam  found  him  in  an  old  house  in  Bond 
Street — one  of  those  high-stooped,  passed-by 
wrecks  that  are  being  turned  into  Italian  tene 
ments,  with  wood  and  coal  shops  in  the  base 
ment  and  sign  painters  in  the  garret.  He 
was  living  with  his  old  sister,  Miss  Peaslee — 
older  than  Tim.  The  two  had  a  life  interest 
in  the  property,  and  none  of  the  heirs  could 
take  possession  until  these  two  were  buried. 

"It  was  dark  when  he  reached  Tim's  and 
mounted  the  steps;  too  dark  for  him  to  no 
tice  the  queer  iron  railings  and  newel  posts 
red  with  rust,  and  the  front  door  that  hadn't 
had  a  coat  of  paint  on  it  for  years,  nor  the 
knob  and  knocker  that  were  black  with  the 
weather.  At  his  first  ring  no  one  answered;, 
at  the  third,  a  woman  with  a  basket  opened 
the  door.  She  was  on  her  way  out — that's 
why  she  opened  it. 

[  I?] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

"  'Yes,  Mr.  Peaslee  and  his  folks  lives  on 
the  top  floor.  He's  our  landlord.  Walk 
right  up.  This  door  ain't  locked  till  twelve 
o'clock,  so  ye  can  just  shut  it  to  behind  ye. 
We  have  the  first  floor,  and  another  family 
has  the  second,  but  they're  moved  out.' 

"On  the  way  upstairs,  in  the  dim  light  of 
the  single  gas-jet,  Sam  made  out  the  slender 
banisters  and  on  each  landing  the  solid  ma 
hogany  doors  that  opened  into  the  several 
rooms,  showing  him  that  it  had  once  been  a 
house  of  some  pretensions. 

"He  knocked  gently;  there  was  a  hurried 
scuffle  inside,  as  if  someone  wanted  to  escape 
being  seen,  and  Tim  thrust  out  his  head.  He 
had  on  an  old  calico  dressing-gown  and  was 
in  his  slippers,  his  glasses  pushed  back  on  his 
forehead. 

"Sam  told  me  he  never  had  such  a  shock 

in  his  life  as  when  he  saw  Tim.     He  had  to 

look  into  his   face   twice   and  wait  until  he 

spoke  before  he  was  sure  it  was  he.     He  had 

[18] 


REGARDING    A    LOST    OPAL 

left  his  chum  a  springy,  enthusiastic  young 
fellow  of  twenty-five,  full  of  go  and  life,  and 
he  found  him  a  dried-up,  wizen-faced,  bald- 
pated  old  fellow  near  fifty,  who  looked  a 
hundred.  While  he  had  been  climbing  moun 
tains,  sleeping  in  the  open  air,  working  with 
a  pick  or  rounding  up  cattle,  poor  old  Tim 
had  been  driving  a  quill  behind  a  desk,  get 
ting  drier  and  drier,  like  an  old  gourd  hung 
in  an  attic — all  the  hope  shrunk  out  of  him, 
all  his  joyousness  gone. 

"  'Who  wants  me?' 

"  'Don't  you  know  me,  Tim?  I'm  Col 
lins — Sam  Collins,'  and  he  caught  hold  of 
his  limp  hand. 

"  'Collins?'  muttered  Tim,  drawing  back. 
'I  don't  know  but  one — '  here  the  light  in 
the  hall  fell  on  Sam's  face — 'Not  Sam,  are 
you?'  He  knew  him  now.  'Come  inside!' 
and  he  dragged  him  past  the  door,  his  shriv 
elled  hand  on  the  miner's  collar.  'Ann,  here's 
Sam — old  Sam  Collins!  Where  have  you 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

been,  you  old  rascal,  all  these  years?  My 
sister — you  remember  her,  of  course — we've 
been  living  here —  Oh,  Sam,  but  I'm  glad 
to  see  you !  What  a  great  girth  you've  got 
on  you,  and  so  big  in  the  shoulders!  And 
what  a  queer  hat !  How  did  you  find  me  ? — 
Oh,  you  rascal !' 

"This  running  fire  of  exclamations  and 
questions  was  kept  up  until  Sam  had  found 
a  seat  next  the  old  sister,  who  was  thinner 
even  than  Tim,  and  with  a  look  in  her  eyes 
of  a  hungry  child  peering  into  a  cake-shop. 
All  this  time  Tim  was  holding  on  to  Sam's 
big  shoulders  as  if  he  was  afraid  he  would 
escape. 

"When  Sam's  gaze  was  free  to  wander 
about  the  room  he  found  it  choked  full  of 
old  furniture  of  the  oldest  and  most  dilapi 
dated  kind — a  mahogany  sideboard  with  the 
knobs  gone;  sofas  with  the  hair-cloth  seats 
in  holes,  all  good  in  their  day,  but  all  want 
ing  the  upholsterer  and  the  cabinet-maker. 

[20] 


REGARDING    A    LOST    OPAL 

Not  a  dollar  had  been  spent  upon  them  for 
years.  The  life  interest,  Sam  found  out 
afterward,  went  with  the  furniture  as  well  as 
the  house. 

"One  thing  struck  Sam  more  than  anything 
else,  and  that  was  Tim's  tenderness  over  Miss 
Ann.  When  she  coughed — and  she  coughed 
most  of  the  time — Tim  would  start  as  if  it 
hurt  him.  Once  he  went  into  the  next  room 
and  brought  her  a  shawl,  and  just  before 
Sam  left  Tim  poured  out  a  spoonful  of  medi 
cine  for  her  and  made  her  take  it  right  before 
Sam,  adding: 

"  'It's  only  Sam;  he's  got  a  heart  as  big  as 
an  ox,  and  will  understand.  Won't  you, 
Sam?' 

"Next  day  Collins  started  in  to  raise  the 
money  for  his  mining.  Tim  introduced  him 
to  the  cashier  and  the  president  of  the  Exeter, 
and  they  both  looked  Sam  over  and  took  in 
his  wide  sombrero  and  queer  clothes,  and  ex 
amined  his  samples — one  was  a  beauty,  which 

[21] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

Tiffany  offered  him  a  big  sum  for — and  then 
they  wrote  him  a  letter — that  is,  the  president 
did — on  the  bank's  paper,  saying  that  they 
appreciated  greatly  the  opportunity,  etc.,  but 
the  charter  of  the  bank  prevented,  etc.,  and 
they  had  no  money  of  their  own,  etc. — same 
old  kind  of  a  lying  letter  these  men  write 
when  they  can't  get  one  hundred  per  cent,  on 
an  investment. 

"Tim  nearly  fell  off  his  stool  with  disap 
pointment  when  Sam  read  him  the  letter,  but 
Sam  never  turned  a  hair.  If  the  old  fossils 
in  the  Exeter  didn't  have  the  money,  some 
body  else  would;  and,  sure  enough,  a  dry- 
goods  man  and  a  retired  physician  turned  up, 
and  the  two  roped  in  a  young  millionnaire,  a 
fellow  by  the  name  of  Moulton,  who  thought 
he  knew  it  all,  and  did.  The  money  was 
raised,  and  Sam  got  ready  to  go  back  to  Mex 
ico  and  start  the  mine  on  an  enlarged  scale. 
All  this  time  he  had  been  looking  up  his  old 
school-friends,  and  the  night  before  he  started 

[22] 


REGARDING    A    LOST    OPAL 

he  got  them  all  together,  including  the  new 
subscribers,  the  young  millionnaire  among 
them,  and  Sam,  at  the  millionnaire's  sugges 
tion,  called  on  old  Solari,  down  in  University 
Place,  and  arranged  for  a  farewell  dinner. 
Tim  was  to  sit  on  his  right  hand  and  the  re 
tired  physician  on  his  left,  and  Sam  was  to 
make  a  proposition  to  his  guests,  half  of 
whom  were  directors  in  the  new  company, 
the  nature  of  which  he  kept  secret  even  from 
Tim. 

"The  old  book-keeper  begged  off,  and 
vowed  he  couldn't  go — hadn't  been  to  a  din 
ner  for  years;  Sister  Ann  wasn't  well,  and 
needed  him;  and,  besides,  on  that  very  night 
he  would  be  up  late  at  his  home  making  up 
the  month's  returns — all  the  excuses  a  man 
hunts  up  when  he  is  hiding  the  real  reason 
that  keeps  him  away.  But  Sam  understood 
Tim  by  this  time. 

"  '  I  forgot  to  tell  you,  Tim,'  he  came 
back  to  say,  'that  you  mustn't  put  on  your 
[23] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

black  evening  clothes.'  (Tim  hadn't  any,  as 
Sam  knew.)  'I'm  going  in  my  rough  togs, 
so  as  to  let  everybody  see  me  as  I  am  every 
day,  and  the  others  will  dress  the  same,  and 
I  want  you  to  oblige  me  by  not  wearing  yours. 
It  will  help  me  in  my  deal.' 

"So  Tim  went,  the  only  addition  to  his 
toilet  being  a  new  black  tie  which  Miss  Ann 
had  made  for  him. 

"The  dinner  was  upstairs  on  the  third 
floor,  in  Solari's  back  room — you  all  know 
it — same  room  Lonnegan  had  last  year  for 
that  supper  he  gave  us.  Sam  had  told  Solari 
to  spare  no  expense,  and  to  keep  setting 
things  up  as  long  as  anybody  wanted  them; 
and  Solari  carried  out  Collins's  orders  to  the 
last  bottle — way  down  to  Chartreuse  and 
Reina  Victorias.  There  were  oysters  on  the 
half-shell,  and  crab  soup  and  an  entree  of 
mushrooms,  and  a  filet  with  trimmings,  and 
plump  little  quail  on  dry  toast,  salads,  des 
serts,  and  so  on. 

[24] 


REGARDING    A    LOST    OPAL 

"Tim,  to  the  delight  of  everybody,  and 
especially  Sam,  thawed  out  under  the  influ 
ence  of  the  first  bottle,  and  sang  a  comic  song 
he  had  not  sung  since  he  and  Sam  had  parted, 
and  took  every  dish  in  its  turn — he  was  twice 
helped  to  quail — and  was  so  happy  that  Sam 
could  hardly  wait  for  the  time  to  come  when 
the  secret  he  had  up  his  sleeve  was  to  be 
slipped  out  and  exploded. 

"When  the  coffee  was  served  Sam  got  up 
on  his  feet,  and  in  welcoming  his  guests  took 
out  the  opal  that  Tiffany  wanted  to  buy,  and 
saying  how  confident  he  was  that  before  the 
year  was  out  he  would  be  able  to  ship  to  them 
many  more  of  even  greater  value  and  bril 
liancy,  passed  it  to  Tim  to  hand  around  the 
table,  some  of  his  old  friends  never  having 
seen  it. 

"Tim  passed  it  across  the  young  million- 
naire  to  a  man  next  him,  and  after  every 
body  had  said  how  beautiful  it  was,  and  how 
they  each  wanted  one  just  like  it,  it  was 
[25] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

handed  back  to  Tim,  who  laid  it  on  the  table 
beside  his  plate.  There  was  no  mistake  about 
this  part  of  the  story,  for  the  millionnaire 
called  the  retired  physician's  attention  to  it, 
remarking  that  as  it  lay  on  the  white  cloth 
by  Tim's  hand  it  looked  like  a  drop  of  frozen 
absinthe — which  wasn't  bad  for  a  million 
naire. 

"  Sam  had  the  secret  now  well  in  hand 
— fuse  all  lighted,  ready  to  be  touched 
off: 

"  'Gentlemen,'  he  began,  'there  are  some 
men  you  have  known  for  a  short  time,  and 
you  like  them,  and  some  go  back  to  your 
boyhood,  and  those  you  love.  I've  got  a 
friend  here  who  is  like  that  opal — clear  as 
crystal  and —  Hand  me  the  opal,  Tim;  I 
just  want  to  dilate  on  it,  and  I  can  do  it  bet 
ter  if  I  have  it  in  my  hand  and  look  into  its 
eyes  and  yours.' 

"Tim  colored  scarlet,  and  moved  his  arm 
quickly.  The  friend  from  boyhood,  he  knew, 
[26] 


REGARDING    A    LOST    OPAL 

was  himself,  and  he  was  not  accustomed  to 
praise. 

"  'Pass  it  along,  old  man!' 

"  'I  haven't  got  it,  Sam,'  came  the  reply. 

"  'Yes,  you  have,'  called  out  the  young 
millionnaire.  'It's  right  there  beside  your 
glass;  I  saw  it  there  a  minute  ago.' 

"  'Well,  if  it  was,'  Tim  stammered,  'it 
isn't  here  now.'  It  was  the  complimentary 
speech  that  Sam  was  about  to  make  that  was 
upsetting  Tim,  so  Sam  thought. 

"By  this  time  half  the  guests  were  on  their 
feet. 

"  'Look  around  among  the  glasses,'  sug 
gested  one. 

"  'Maybe  it's  under  your  napkin,'  re 
marked  another. 

"  'I  gave  it  to  you,  I  thought,'  said  Tim, 
turning  to  the  physician. 

"  'No,  you  didn't.  You've  got  it  some 
where  around;  perhaps  you've  slipped  it 
in  your  pocket'  There  was  a  slight  tone 
[27] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

of  suspicion  in  the  voice  which  jarred  on 
Sam. 

"  'No,'  answered  Tim  helplessly.  'I  didn't 
put  it  in  my  pocket.  I  don't  know  what  I 
did  with  it.' 

"  'Send  for  Hawkshaw  the  detective — lock 
the  doors,  and  search  every  man  down  to  his 
underwear!'  shouted  Sam  in  a  serio-comic 
voice. 

"Chairs  were  now  being  pushed  back,  and 
some  of  the  men  were  on  their  knees  groping 
around  the  floor  near  where  Tim  sat,  the 
head  waiter  holding  a  candle  from  the  table. 

"All  this  time  Sam  was  standing  waiting 
to  finish  his  speech,  to  him  the  event  of  the 
evening.  The  table  was  moved,  and  every 
square  foot  of  the  carpet  gone  over,  Tim 
assisting  in  the  search,  but  in  a  perfunctory 
way  that  attracted  Sam's  attention. 

"  'Never  mind,  gentlemen,  let  it  go,'  Sam 
said.  'I  can  do  without  it.  It  will  turn  up 
somewhere;  you've  all  seen  it,  anyhow,  and 
[28] 


REGARDING    A    LOST    OPAL 

so  it's  just  as  good  as  if  I  held  it  up  before 
you.' 

'  'Some  men,  as  I  said,  I  have  known  from 
boyhood ' 

"The  young  millionnaire  now  jumped  up. 

'"Hold  on,  Mr.  Collins;  I'd  like  to  find 
that  opal  before  we  do  anything  else.  No 
body  has  swallowed  it' — constant  association 
with  money  had  warped  his  judgment  of  hu 
man  nature,  perhaps.  'Here's  what's  in  my 
clothes,'  and  he  began  unloading  his  keys, 
knife,  loose  change,  and  handkerchief  from 
his  coat-pocket  and  piling  them  up  on  the 
table. 

"Every  man  followed  his  lead,  the  con 
tagion  of  his  example  having  spread  through 
the  room.  The  unloading  was  as  much  a  part 
of  the  merriment  of  the  evening  as  Tim's 
comic  song  or  Sam's  sallies  of  wit.  Tim,  all 
this  time,  had  been  edging  near  where  Sam 
stood. 

"  'Out   with  your  stuff,    Peaslee,'   shouted 
[29] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

the  millionnaire — 'here,  right  on  the  table — 
everything.' 

"Tim  turned  pale  and  made  a  step  nearer 
Sam. 

"  'I  haven't  got  the  opal,  Sam;  indeed  I 
haven't!'  There  was  a  tone  in  his  voice  that 
was  almost  pathetic. 

"  'Of  course  you  haven't,  old  man,  but  out 
with  your  stuff,  just  as  the  others  have. 
Hurry  up !' 

"  'I  can't,  Sam !'  groaned  Tim. 

'"You  can't!' 

"'No,  I  can't!  Please  don't  ask  me.  I 
must  bid  you  good-night,  gentlemen.  Please 
let  me  go  away,'  and  he  moved  to  the  door 
and  shut  it  behind  him. 

"Every  man  looked  at  Sam.  For  a  mo 
ment  no  one  spoke.  Collins  himself  was 
dumfounded. 

"'Damn  queer,  isn't  it?'  whispered  the 
millionnaire  to  Sam.  'What  do  you  think  is 
the  matter  with  him?' 

[30] 


REGARDING    A    LOST    OPAL 

"'Nothing  that  YOU  think!'  said  Sam, 
looking  him  square  in  the  face,  a  peculiar 
glitter  in  his  eye  that  some  of  his  workmen 
knew  when  there  was  any  trouble  in  the  mine. 
'Let  us  drink  to  his  health.  He  is  not  accus 
tomed  to  being  out,  and  the  wine  has  perhaps 
gone  to  his  head.'  ' 

MacWhirter  reached  for  his  pipe,  knocked 
the  bowl  against  the  brickwork  of  the  big 
fireplace  to  free  it  from  its  dead  ashes,  and 
turned  again  to  the  circle  about  him.  At  the 
same  instant  the  back-log  settled  itself  with 
a  sigh  of  satisfaction,  and  a  crackling  of 
sparks — the  fire's  applause,  no  doubt — filled 
the  hearth. 

"Is  that  all?"  broke  in  Boggs. 

"Not  quite,"  Mac  answered.  "All  for 
that  night,  and  all  for  the  next  day,  so  far  as 
Tim  was  concerned,  for  the  old  fellow  shut 
himself  up  in  his  room  and  said  he  was  sick, 
and  Sam  had  to  leave  for  Mexico  without 

seeing  him." 

[31] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

"What  did  the  others  think?" 

"Just  what  you  would  have  thought,  and 
did,  when  I  told  it  awhile  ago.  That's  why 
I  asked  you.  The  millionnaire  believed,  of 
course,  Tim  had  stolen  it,  and  so  did  the 
physician.  Made  such  an  impression  on  the 
new  directors  present  that  Sam  smothered  his 
intended  surprise  and  left  his  speech  unfin 
ished. 

"Three  months  after  that  Sam  came  back 
to  New  York  with  more  opals,  many  of  them 
much  larger  and  finer  than  the  one  which  had 
so  mysteriously  disappeared.  He  arrived 
after  everybody  had  gone  to  bed — Tim  Peas- 
lee  among  them — and  remembering  the  din 
ner,  and  where  he  had  eaten  it,  and  how  good 
it  was,  he  got  into  a  cab  and  drove  to  Solari's. 
The  head  waiter  looked  him  over  for  a  mo 
ment — he  still  wore  the  same  sombrero — and 
went  out  and  got  the  clerk,  who  asked  him 
his  name;  and  then  Solari  came  in  and  asked 
him  more  questions  and  laid  the  lost  opal  in 
[32] 


REGARDING    A    LOST    OPAL 

his  hand.  It  had  been  found  under  a  corner 
of  the  carpet  when  it  had  been  taken  up  and 
shaken  the  week  before,  and  Solari  had  been 
trying  ever  since  to  find  some  way  of  letting 
Sam  know. 

"It  was  now  eleven  o'clock,  but  that  didn't 
make  any  difference  to  Sam.  He  laid  a  five- 
dollar  bill  on  the  table  to  pay  for  the  supper, 
he  had  ordered  and  hadn't  time  to  eat,  made 
a  rush  for  the  door,  jumped  into  a  cab  and 
drove  like  mad  to  Bond  Street.  The  outer 
door  was  open.  He  mounted  the  stairs  three 
steps  at  a  time  and  banged  away  at  Tim's 
door.  It  happened  to  be  Tim's  night  for 
working  over  his  accounts,  and  he  was  still  up. 

"  'I've  got  it,  Tim — rolled  under  the  car 
pet.  Here  it  is.  Let  me  hug  you,  you  old 
fraud!  Where's  Miss  Ann?  I  want  to  see 
her.  Go  and  dig  her  out  of  bed,  I  tell  you!' 

"All  this  time  Sam  was  hugging  Tim  like 
a  bear,  lifting  him  up  and  down  as  if  he  had 
been  a  baby.  When  they  got  inside  and  Tim 
[33] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

had  shut  the  hall  door,  and  had  tiptoed 
toward  his  sister's  room  and  had  seen  that 
her  door  was  shut  tight — so  tight  that  she 
couldn't  hear — he  came  back  to  where  Sam 
stood  and  nearly  shook  his  arm  off. 

"  'Found  it  under  the  carpet,  did  they? 
Oh,  I'm  so  glad!  I  never  shall  forget  that 
.  night,  Sam.  They  wanted  me  to  empty  my 
pockets,  and  I  couldn't.  I  didn't  care  what 
they  thought.  Oh,  Sam,  it  was  awful !  You 
didn't  think  I  had  taken  it,  did  you?' 

"  'No,  old  man,  I  didn't,  and  that's  square. 
But  why  didn't  you  unload  with  the  others?' 

"Tim  craned  his  head  toward  Miss  Ann's 
door,  listened  intently  for  a  moment,  and 
said: 

'  'I  had  one  of  those  little  fat  quail  in  my 
coat-tail  pocket;  they  passed  me  two.  Ann 
used  to  love  them,  and  I  knew  you  wouldn't 
mind;  and  I  lied  about  it  when  I  gave  it  to 
her  and  told  her  you  sent  it.  Don't  tell  her, 
please.'  " 

[34] 


REGARDING    A    LOST    OPAL 

As  Mac  finished,  a  log  which  had  perhaps 
leaned  too  far  forward  in  its  effort  to  listen, 
lost  its  balance  and  rolled  over  on  the  hearth, 
sending  a  shower  of  astonished  sparks  scurry 
ing  up  the  chimney.  Marny  bent  forward 
and  sent  it  back  into  place  with  his  foot. 
Wharton  pushed  back  his  chair  and  without 
a  word  reached  for  his  coat;  so  did  Pitkin 
and  the  others.  The  story  had  evidently 
made  a  deep  impression  on  them,  so  much  so 
that  Marny  didn't  speak  to  Pitkin  or  Whar 
ton  until  they  reached  the  Square,  and  then 
only  to  say:  "Regular  old  trump,  that  book 
keeper — wasn't  he?" 

Boggs  still  sat  hunched  up  in  his  chair.  He 
was  less  emotional  than  dear  old  Marny,  but 
his  heart  was  in  the  right  place  all  the  same. 

"Bully  story,  Mac — one  of  your  best. 
Heard  something  like  that  before.  Heard 
it  in  two  or  three  ways — as  a  peach  in  a 
Bishop's  pocket;  as  a  snuff-box  in  an  ad 
miral's.  You're  a  daisy,  Mac,  for  warming 
[351 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 


over  club  chestnuts.  But  that's  all  right. 
Now,  what  was  the  surprise  Collins  had  up 
his  sleeve  when  he  got  up  to  make  his  speech 
that  night?" 

"Why,  Tim's  appointment  as  book-keeper 
of  the  new  company.  His  refusal  to  be 
searched  of  course  knocked  that  in  the  head. 
He's  treasurer  now;  has  a  big  slice  of  the 
stock  that  Sam  gave  him  for  luck;  has  lost  all 
his  wrinkles,  looks  ten  years  younger,  and  is 
getting  a  new  crop  of  hair.  Miss  Ann  has 
got  over  her  cough  and  is  spry  as  a  kitten — 
spryer.  They  are  all  out  at  the  mine;  she 
keeps  house  for  them  both." 


[36] 


PART    II 

Wherein  the  Gentle  Art  of  Dining  is  Vari 
ously  Described. 

"~|\  >TOVE  back,  Lonnegan,  and  let  me 
1*-1-  get  at  it!"  cried  MacWhirter  the 
next  afternoon.  "You  jab  a  fire  as  if  it  were 
something  you  wanted  to  kill !  Coddle  it  a 
little,  like  this,"  and  Mac  laid  the  warm 
cheeks  of  two  logs  together  and  a  sputtering 
of  hot  kisses  filled  the  hearth. 

"Don't  call  him  'Lonnegan,'  Mac,  in  that 
rude  and  boisterous  way,"  expostulated 
Boggs.  "It  jars  on  his  Royal  Highness's 
finer  sensibilities.  Say  'MR.  Lonnegan,  will 
you  have  the  kindness  to  remove  your  beau 
tiful  and  well-groomed  and  fashionable  car 
cass  until  I  can  add  a  stick  or  two  to  my 
fire?'  Lonnegan  has  been  in  society — out 
every  night  this  week,  I  hear." 
[371 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

Mac  replaced  the  tongs  and  straight 
ened  his  back,  his  face  turned  toward 
Lonnegan. 

"Were  you  really  on  exhibition,  Lonny?" 
Mac's  impatience  never  lasts  many  seconds. 

The  architect  nodded,  then  answered 
slowly : 

"Five  dinners  and  a  tea." 

"All  rich  houses,  I  suppose?" 

"Very  rich." 

"And  all  wanted  plans  for  country  seats, 
of  course?" 

"Some  of  them — two,  I  think." 

"Extra  dry  champagne,  under-done  canvas- 
backs  and  costly  terrapin  served  every  five 
minutes?" 

"No.  Extra  dry  canvas-backs,  done-over 
terrapin,  and  cheap  champagne.  Served  but 
once,  thank  God!" 

"Wore  your  swell  clothes,  I  presume?" 

"Yes,  swallow-tail  on  me  every  night  and 
a  head  on  me  every  morning,"  answered 
[38] 


THE    GENTLE    ART    OF    DINING 

Lonnegan  with  a  grave  face.     "Why  do  you 
ask,  Mac?" 

"Oh,  just  to  keep  in  touch  with  the  history 
of  my  country,  old  man." 

While  the  two  men  talked,  Pitkin  and  Van 
Brunt  walked  in — the  latter  a  Dutch  painter 
in  New  York  for  the  winter,  just  arrived  by 
steamer.  The  atmosphere  of  No.  3  was  evi 
dently  congenial  to  the  man,  for,  after  a 
hand-shake  all  round,  the  Hollander  pro 
duced  his  own  pipe,  filled  it  from  a  leather 
pouch  in  his  pocket,  and  sat  down  before  the 
fire  as  unconcerned  and  as  contented  as  if  he'd 
been  one  of  the  fire's  circle  from  the  day  of 
its  lighting.  Good  Bohemians,  so  called  the 
world  over,  have  an  international  code  of 
manners,  just  as  all  club  men  of  equal  class 
agree  upon  certain  details  of  dress  and  eti 
quette,  no  matter  what  their  tongue.  The 
brush,  the  chisel,  the  trowel,  and  the  test-tube 
are  so  many  talismans — open  sesames  to  the 
whole  fraternity. 

[39] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

The  Hollander  had  overheard  the  last 
half  of  Mac's  sally  and  Lonnegan's  grave 
rejoinder. 

"Yes,  the  terrapin  and  the  canvas-back,  I 
hear  much  of  them.  What  does  a  terrapin 
look  like,  Mr.  Lonnegan?" 

"A  terrapin,  Van  Brunt,"  interrupted 
Boggs,  "is  a  hide-bound  little  beast  that 
sleeps  in  the  mud,  is  as  ugly  as  the  devil,  and 
can  bite  a  tenpenny  nail  in  two  with  his  teeth 
when  he's  awake.  When  he  is  boiled  and 
picked  clean,  and  served  with  Madeira,  he 
is  the  most  toothsome  compound  known  to 
cookery." 

"Correctly  described,  Boggs — 'compound' 
is  good,"  said  Lonnegan.  "The  up-to-date- 
modern-millionnaire-terrapin,  Mr.  Van  Brunt, 
is  a  reptile  compounded  of  glue,  chicken- 
bones,  chopped  calf's  head,  and  old  India- 
rubber  shoes.  When  ready  for  use  it  tastes 
like  flour  paste  served  in  hot  flannel.  I  may 
be  wrong  about  the  chopped  calf's  head,  but 
[40] 


THE    GENTLE    ART    OF    DINING 

I'm  all  right  about  the  India-rubber  shoes. 
I've  been  eating  them  this  week,  and  part  of 
a  heel  is  still  here" — and  he  tapped  his  shirt- 
front. 

"And  the  canvas-back?"  continued  Van 
Brunt,  laughing.  "It  is  a  duck,  is  it 
not?" 

"Occasionally  a  duck — I  speak,  of  course, 
of  tables  where  I  have  dined — but  seldom  a 
canvas-back." 

"And  they  live  in  the  marshes,  I  hear,  and 
feed  on  the  wild  celery — do  they  not?" 

"No;  they  live  in  a  cold  storage  six  months 
in  the  year,  and  feed  on  sawdust  and  ice," 
replied  Lonnegan  with  the  face  of  a  stone 
god. 

"Hard  life,  isn't  it?"  remarked  Boggs  to 
the  circle  at  large. 

"For  the  duck?"  asked  Pitkin. 

"No — for  Lonnegan.  Orders  for  country 
houses  come  high." 

"Serves    him     right!"    ventured    Marny, 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

"No  business  eating  such  messes;  ought  to  get 
back  to " 

"Hog  and  hominy,"  interrupted  Lonne- 
gan,  still  with  the  same  grave  face. 

"Both.  That's  what  most  of  your  million- 
naires  were  brought  up  on." 

Pitkin  sprang  from  his  seat,  and,  -thrust 
ing  both  hands  into  his  pockets,  burst  out 
with — 

"Gentlemen,  you  really  don't  know  what 
good  eating  is!  The  taste  for  terrapin  and 
canvas-back  is  part  of  the  degeneration  of  the 
age;  so  is  it  for  truffles,  mushrooms,  caviare, 
and  a  lot  of  such  messes.  The  French, 
whose  cuisine  we  imitate,  turn  out  a  lot  of  flat- 
chested,  spindle-shanks  on  sauces  and  ragouts. 
We'll  go  to  the  devil  in  the  same  way  if  we 
follow  their  cooks.  The  English  raise  the 
highest  standard  of  man  on  tough  bread  and 
the  most  insipid  boiled  mutton  in  the  world. 
What  we  have  got  to  do  is  to  get  back  to 
our  plain  old-fashioned  kitchens.  The 
[42] 


THE    GENTLE    ART    OF    DINING 

best  dinner  I  ever  had  in  my  life  was  when  I 
was  sixteen  years  old,  and  even  now,  when 
ever  I  get  a  whiff  from  a  shop  where  they 
are  cooking  the  same  combination,  I  can  no 
more  pass  it  than  a  drunkard  can  pass  a  rum- 
mill." 

"Drunk  on  pork  and  beans !"  growled 
Boggs  in  a  low  voice  to  Marny.  "I  knew 
you'd  come  to  no  good  end,  Pitkin.  You 
ought  to  sign  a  pledge  and  join  a  non- 
adulterated  food  society." 

"Something  better  than  pork  and  beans, 
you  beggar!"  retorted  Pitkin — "something 
that  makes  my  mouth  water  every  time  I 
think  of  it.  And  hungry!  the  prodigal  son 
was  an  over- fed  alderman  to  me;  real  gnaw 
ing,  empty  kind  of  hunger." 

Ford  stood  up  and  faced  the  circle. 

"The  great  sculptor,  gentlemen,  is  about 
to  tell  us  what  he  knows  of  biblical  history. 
Silence !" 

"I  had  been  out  gunning  all  day " 

[43] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

"I  didn't  know  you  were  a  sportsman," 
interpolated  Boggs. 

"I  had  been  gunning  all  day,"  Pitkin  re 
peated  firmly,  ignoring  the  Chronic  Inter 
rupter,  "  and  had  lost  my  way  over  the 
mountains.  Just  about  dark  I  reached  the 
valley  and  made  for  a  small  cabin  with  a  curl 
of  smoke  coming  out  of  the  chimney.  As  I 
came  nearer  I  got  a  whiff  from  a  fry-pan 
that  made  me  ravenous — one  of  those  smells 
you  never  forget  to  your  dying  day.  As  I 
opened  the  gate  I  could  see  the  glow  of  a  fire 
in  the  stove,  the  smell  getting  stronger  every 
minute.  Inside,  I  found  a  man  sitting  in  his 
shirt-sleeves  by  a  table.  The  table  had  two 
plates  on  it,  two  knives,  two  forks,  and  two 
big  china  cups.  Bending  over  the  hot  stove 
was  his  wife.  She  was  stirring  a  large  bowl 
filled  to  the  brim  with  buckwheat  batter.  On 
the  stove  was  a  hot  griddle  and  a  fry-pan, 
and  coiled  in  the  fry-pan,  trim  as  a  rope 
coiled  flat  on  a  yacht's  deck,  lay  a  string  of 
[44] 


THE    GENTLE    ART    OF    DINING 

link  sausages,  with  the  bight  of  the  line  stick 
ing  up  in  the  centre,  like  Mac's  thumb. 

"  'Are  you  Pitkin's  boy?'  the  man  said, 
after  I  had  explained. 

"  'Yes.' 

"  'Sit  down  and  eat.' 

"The  old  man  had  two  cakes,  and  I  had 
two  cakes.  They  were  griddled  in  fours, 
and  we  both  had  a  link  of  sausage  with  each 
instalment.  I  never  moved  from  my  chair 
until  the  tide-mark  on  the  bowl  had  gone 
down  five  inches,  and  the  core  of  the  sausages 
looked  as  if  a  solid  shot  had  struck  it.  That 
smell !  and  the  way  it  all  tasted,  and  the  little 
brown  frazzlings  around  the  edges  of  the 
celestial  cakes,  and  the  sizzlings  of  fat  on 
the  sausages,  and  the  boiling  hot  coffee  that 
washed  it  all  down!  Oh,  go  to  with  your 
Delmonico  dishes!  Give  me  the  days  of  my 
youth  !  If  I  had  but  four  breaths  left  in  me, 
and  if  somebody  should  pass  that  pan  of 
sausages  under  my  nose,  I  could  rise  up  and 
[45] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

whip  my  weight  in  wild-cats.  And  yet  that 
smell  doesn't  bring  to  my  memory  the  way 
my  hunger  was  satisfied,  or  how  the  food 
tasted.  What  I  recall  is  the  low-ceiled  room, 
and  the  glow  of  the  fire;  the  warmth  and 
comfort  everywhere,  and  the  high  light  on 
the  old  Frau's  face  bending  over  her  griddle. 
You'd  just  love  to  have  painted  that  old 
woman,  Mac." 

The  Hollander  had  listened  quietly  and 
without  comment,  both  to  Lonnegan's  chaff 
and  to  Pitkin's  enthusiastic  recital. 

"Ah,  yes,  you  are  quite  right,  Mr.  Pitkin; 
after  all,  it  is  the  imagination  that  is  fed,  not 
the  stomach." 

The  measured  tones  of  the  speaker's  voice 
at  once  commanded  attention;  even  Boggs 
twisted  his  head  to  catch  his  words: 

"It  is  his  imagination,  too,  which  suffers 

when   a   man  loses  his  money  and  becomes 

poor.    What  he  misses  most,  then,  is  not  his 

horses  and  carriages  and  fine  houses;  it  is  his 

[46] 


table,  and  the  clean  napkins  and  the  linen, 
and  hot  plates  and  the  quite  thin  glasses.  Is 
it  not  so?  I  can  think  of  nothing  more  satis 
fying  than  a  well-appointed  table,  with  the 
servants  about  and  the  dishes  properly  served, 
and  with  the  flowers,  silver,  and  glass,  the 
better  wines  coming  later,  the  coffee  and  cigar 
at  the  end.  And  I  can  think  of  nothing  more 
pitiful  than  for  a  man  who  has  had  all  this, 
to  be  obliged  to  stand  at  a  cheap  counter  and 
eat  a  cheap  sandwich.  My  father  used  to 
tell  me  a  story  about  the  spendthrift  son  of 
an  old  baron  who  lived  in  my  town,  by  the 
name  of  De  Ruyter,  and  who  spent  in  just 
two  years  every  guilder  his  father  left  him. 
Then  came  roulette,  and  at  last  he  was  a 
tout  for  gaming-houses — so  poor  that  he  had 
but  one  coat  to  his  back.  All  this  time, 
having  been  born  a  gentleman,  he  managed 
to  keep  himself  clean,  his  clothes  brushed  and 
mended,  and  his  shirt  and  collar  ironed. 
That  is  quite  difficult  for  a  man  who  is  poor. 

[47] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

"One  day  an  old  friend  of  his  dead  fa 
ther's,  a  very  rich  man,  took  pity  on  him,  and 
asked  him  to  call  at  his  house  so  that  he  might 
arrange  to  get  him  work.  He  received  him 
in  his  library  and  rang  for  cigars  and  brandy, 
which  his  servant  brought  on  a  silver  plate. 
The  brandy  the  poor  fellow  drank,  but  the 
cigar  he  begged  permission  to  put  in  his 
pocket  and  smoke  later  in  the  day.  It  was 
one  of  those  great  cigars  the  rich  Hollanders 
smoke,  about  as  long  as  your  hand  and  thick 
like  two  fingers.  This  one  had  a  little  band 
around  it,  with  the  coat  of  arms  of  the  gen 
tleman  stamped  in  gold;  not  a  cigar  you  can 
buy  even  in  Amsterdam,  but  a  cigar  made 
especially  for  very  big  customers  like  this  one. 

"When  young  De  Ruyter  went  out  from 
the  library  he  carried  a  letter  to  a  merchant 
on  the  dock,  which  got  for  him  a  situation 
at  ten  guilders  a  week,  and  this  big  cigar. 
All  the  way  to  his  lodgings  in  the  garret  he 
kept  his  hand  on  it  as  it  lay  flat  in  his  waist- 
[48] 


THE    GENTLE    ART    OF    DINING 

coat-pocket.  At  every  street  corner  he  took 
it  out  carefully  to  see  that  it  was  not  mashed 
or  broken.  When  he  pushed  in  his  room 
door  he  began  to  look  around  for  a  place  to 
put  it.  He  was  afraid  to  carry  it  around 
with  him  for  fear  of  crushing  it.  At  last  he 
saw  a  crack  in  the  plaster  just  above  the  bed, 
showing  two  open  laths.  He  wrapped  it 
most  carefully  in  paper  and  laid  it  in  the 
opening;  here  it  would  be  dry  and  out  of 
danger;  here  he  could  always  be  sure  that  it 
was  safe.  Then  he  presented  his  letter  and 
went  to  work  for  the  merchant  on  the  dock. 
"All  that  week  he  waited  for  Saturday 
night,  when  he  would  get  his  first  ten  guild 
ers,  and  all  that  week  before  he  went  to  sleep 
he  would  take  a  look  at  the  cigar  to  be  sure 
it  was  there.  Every  morning  when  he  awoke 
he  did  the  same  thing.  When  Saturday  night 
came,  and  the  money  was  laid  in  his  hand, 
he  hurried  to  his  garret,  washed  himself 
clean,  brushed  the  only  coat  he  owned,  took 

[49] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

out  the  precious  cigar,  laid  it  on  his  bed  where 
it  would  be  safe  while  he  finished  dressing, 
put  his  hat  on  one  side  of  his  head  in  his  old 
rakish  way,  gave  a  look  at  himself  in  the 
broken  glass,  and  downstairs  he  goes  hum 
ming  a  tune  to  himself.  He  was  very  happy. 
Now  he  would  have  the  best  dinner  he  had 
had  for  months,  and  feel  like  a  gentleman 
once  more.  And  the  cigar!  Ah,  that  would 
end  it  all  up !  You  see,  gentlemen,  with  us 
the  whole  dinner  is  only  the  cigar;  everything 
is  arranged  most  carefully  for  that. 

"Then  De  Ruyter  walks  into  Van  Hoes- 
en's,  the  largest  cafe  we  have  in  my  town; 
stands  until  the  head  waiter  recognizes  him 
and  comes  over  to  his  side;  orders  with  his 
old  magnificent  manner  the  wines,  the  soup, 
the  entrees,  even  the  anchovies  after  the 
sweets — that  is  a  custom  of  ours — the  whole 
costing  ten  guilders,  with  one  guilder  to  the 
waiter.  When  it  was  served  he  sat  himself 
down,  opened  his  napkin,  tipped  the  news- 
[50] 


THE    GENTLE    ART    OF    DINING 

paper  where  he  could  glance  at  it,  and  ate 
very  slowly  like  a  man  of  leisure. 

"When  the  coffee  was  passed  the  head 
waiter  brought  to  him  an  assortment  of  cigars 
on  a  tray,  some  one  guilder  each,  some  five 
cents.  De  Ruyter  pushed  them  away  with 
a  contemptuous  wave  of  the  hand,  saying, 
'There  is  nothing  you  have  to  my  taste;  I 
will  smoke  my  own.' 

"The  great  moment  had  now  arrived.  He 
paid  his  bill,  ordered  a  fresh  candle,  waited 
until  the  head  waiter,  whose  guilder  had 
made  him  all  the  more  obsequious,  had 
lighted  it  and  stood  waiting  where  he  could 
see,  and  then  slipped  his  hand  into  his  inside 
pocket  for  the  cigar.  It  was  not  there! 
Then  he  remembered  that  he  had  not  taken 
it  from  the  bed. 

"He  ran  all  the  way  home.  There  lay  the 
cigar  on  the  blanket.  The  next  instant  it  was 
on  the  floor  and  under  his  heel. 

"  'Lie  there,   damn  you !  '  he  said,   crush- 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

ing    it   to    pieces.      'You    have    spoiled   my 
dinner!' 

"You  see,  gentlemen,  it  was  not  the  hun 
ger  of  the  empty  stomach;  it  was  a  starved 
imagination  that  was  ravenous  like  a  wolf. 
Ah,  cannot  you  feel  for  the  poor  fellow  ?  All 
the  week  hungry,  one  great  idea  of  the  dig 
nity  of  rank  in  his  mind,  and  then  to  have  his 
triumph  spoiled,  and  under  the  eyes  of  the 
head  waiter,  too !  And  such  beasts  of  waiters 
they  are  at  home,  with  their  eyes  seeing  every 
thing  and  their  tongues  never  still!  My 
father,  when  he  would  tell  the  story,  would 
tap  his  chair  and  say,  'Ah,  poor  devil!  such 
a  pity — such  a  pity  he  forgot  it !  It  would 
have  tasted  so  good  to  him !'  That  was  a 
word  of  my  father's — 'He  forgot  it — he 
forgot  it,'  he  would  say,  shaking  his  finger 
at  us." 

"All  to  the  credit  of  your  father,  Van 
Brunt,"  burst  out  Marny;  "but  if  you  want 
[52] 


THE    GENTLE    ART    OF    DINING 

my  candid  opinion  of  your  blue-blooded, 
busted  baron,  I  think  he  was  a  selfish  brute, 
without  the  first  glimmer  of  what  a  gentle 
man  should  have  done  under  such  circum 
stances,  and  I  leave  it  to  everybody  here  to 
decide  whether  I'm  right  or  wrong.  What 
he  ought  to  have  done  was  to  hunt  around 
for  some  of  his  friends,  order  a  dinner  for 
two,  hand  his  friend  the  cigar  and  take  a 
cheap  one  from  the  waiter  for  himself.  What 
you  call  'fine  eating'  has  nothing  to  do  with 
either  the  stomach  or  with  the  imagination. 
Fine  eating  is  an  excuse  for  good  fellowship; 
when  you  don't  have  that,  it  is  a  'stalled  ox' 
and  the  rest  of  it.  What  you  want  is  to  open 
with  a  laugh  and  eat  straight  through  to  that 
same  kind  of  music.  All  the  good  dinners 
in  the  world  were  jolly  dinners;  all  the  poor 
ones  were  funeral  gatherings,  no  matter  how 
good  the  cooking.  I'll  give  you  an  idea  of 
what  a  good  dinner  ought  to  be.  None  of 
your  selfish,  solitary-confinement  sort  of  a 

[53] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

meal  like  this  self-centred  Dutchman's,  but  a 
rip-roaring,  waistcoat-swelling,  breath-catch 
ing,  hilarious  feast,  which  began  with  a  hur 
rah,  continued  with  every  man  singing  psalms 
of  thanksgiving  over  the  dishes  and  the  com 
pany,  and  ended  with  a  tempest  of  good  cheer 
and  everybody  loving  everybody  else  twice  as 
much  for  having  come  together." 

"Clam-chowder  club,  of  course,"  growled 
Boggs,  "with  a  brass  band  and  a  cord  of  fire 
wood,  and  three-legged  stools  to  sit  on." 

Marny  glared  at  the  Chronic  Interrupter, 
made  a  movement  with  his  hand  as  if  to  com 
pel  his  silence,  and  continued: 

"We  had  eaten  nothing  since  breakfast  but 
five  raw  clams  apiece,  and " 

"Where  was  all  this,  Marny,  anyhow?" 
asked  Boggs. 

"Down  at  Uncle  Jesse  Conklin's,  on  Cap 
Tree  Island,"  retorted  Marny  impatiently. 

"All  right — sounded  as  if  it  might  be  at 
a  summer  boarding-house.     Go  ahead!" 
[54] 


THE    GENTLE    ART    OF    DINING 

"No,  down  on  Great  South  Bay.  The 
Stone  Mugs  had  an  outing  and  I  went  along. 
These  clams  coming  on  an  empty  stomach 
and  being  right  out  of  the  salt  water  and 
fresh  and  cold " 

"Mixed  in  your  statements,  old  man:  can't 
be  salt  and  fresh  at  the  same  time.  But  go 
on !  So  far  we've  only  got  five  clams  to  be 
hilarious  on " 

Marny  reached  over  and  grabbed  Boggs 
by  the  collar. 

"Will  you  shut  up,  or  shall  I  throw  you 
over  the  banisters?" 

"I'll  shut  up — like  your  clam;  won't  say 
another  word,  so  help  me !"  and  Boggs  held 
up  one  hand  as  if  to  be  sworn. 

"These  clams,"  continued  Marny,  releasing 
his  hold  on  Boggs's  collar,  "coming  as  they 
did  on  an  empty  stomach,  made  every  man 
ravenous.  French  shrimps,  Dutch  pickles,  and 
Swedish  anchovies — all  the  appetizers  you 
ever  heard  of — were  mild  compared  to  them. 
[551 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

Uncle  Jesse  had  opened  them  himself,  the 
ten  men  standing  around  taking  the  contents 
of  each  shell  from  the  end  of  Uncle  Jesse's 
fork  and  then  waiting  their  turns  until  the 
fork  came  their  way  again.  All  this  was 
under  a  shed  in  full  view  of  the  harbor  and 
the  old  man's  boats  and  buildings. 

"When  the  sun  went  down  we  went  into 
the  bar-room,  and  Uncle  Jesse  compounded 
a  mixture  which  made  an  afternoon  call  on 
the  five  clams,  and  by  that  time  we  could  have 
eaten  each  other.  Six  o'clock  came,  and  no 
signs  of  anything.  Half  past  six,  and  not 
the  faintest  smell  of  fried,  boiled,  or  roasted  : 
no  hurrying  waiters  in  sight;  no  maids  in 
aprons;  nothing  indicating  any  preparation 
or  any  place  for  it  to  preparate  in  unless  it 
was  a  room  behind  a  small  white-pine  door 
which  Uncle  Jesse  had  locked  in  full  view  of 
the  hungry  crowd.  Only  once  did  he  explain 
this  mystery;  that  was  when  he  jerked  his 
thumb  in  the  direction  of  the  vacancy  on  the 
[56] 


THE    GENTLE    ART    OF    DINING 

other  side  of  the  panels,  and  remarked  sen- 
tentiously,  'Won't  be  long  now.' 

"Soon  a  wild  misgiving  arose  in  our  minds. 
Had  anything  happened  to  the  cook,  or  would 
the  simple  repast — we  had  left  the  details  to 
Uncle  Jesse — consist  of  only  clams  and  cock 
tails? 

"All  this  time  Uncle  Jesse  was  patient  and 
polite,  but  almighty  mysterious.  Bets  now 
began  to  be  made  in  whispers  by  the  men : 
It  would  be  thin  oyster  soup,  pumpkin  pies, 
and  cider;  or  cold  corn  beef  and  preserves; 
or,  worse  still,  codfish  balls  and  griddle-cakes. 
Seven  o'clock  came — seven-five — seven-ten. 
Then  a  gong  sounded  in  the  next  room,  and 
Uncle  Jesse  sprang  to  the  door,  raised  one 
hand  while  the  other  fumbled  with  the  lock, 
and  shouted  as  he  swung  back  the  door: 

"  'Solid  men  to  the  front!' 

"You  should  have  seen  that  table !  One 
long  perspective  of  bliss — porter-house  steak 
and  broiled  blue-fish — porter-house  steak  and 
[57] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

broiled  blue-fish — porter-house  steak  and 
broiled  blue-fish  down  to  the  end  of  the  table; 
and  alongside  each  plate  a  quart  of  extra-dry, 
frappeed  to  half  a  degree,  and  a  pint  of  Bur 
gundy  the  temperature  of  your  sweet-heart's 
hand!  All  about  were  heaps  of  home-made 
bread  and  flakes  of  butter,  and —  Oh,  that 
table ! 

"We  stood  paralyzed  for  a  moment,  and 
then  sent  up  a  roaring  cheer  that  nearly  lifted 
the  roof.  Uncle  Jesse  wasn't  going  to  sit 
down,  but  we  grabbed  him  by  the  shoulders 
and  started  him  on  the  run  for  the  end  of  the 
table,  and  there  he  sat  until  only  heaps  of 
bones  and  dead  bottles  marked  the  scene  of 
action.  Whenever  a  man  could  get  his  breath 
he  broke  out  in  song,  everybody  joining  in. 
'Oh,  dem  golden  fritters!'  was  chanted  to  an 
accompaniment  of  clattering  forks  on  empty 
plates,  the  cook  and  his  staff  craning  their 
heads  through  the  door  and  helping  out  with 
a  double  shuffle  of  their  own. 
[58] 


THE    GENTLE    ART    OF    DINING 

"Coffee  was  served  in  the  bar-room,  and 
all  filed  out  to  drink  it,  every  man  full  to  his 
eyelids  and  saturated  with  a  contentment  that 
only  Long  Island  blue-fish  and  Fulton  Mar 
ket  steak  with  the  necessary  liquids  and  solids 
could  produce. 

"While  we  smoked  on  and  sipped  our 
coffee,  Uncle  Jesse's  silences  became  more 
frequent,  and  soon  the  old  fellow  dozed  off 
to  sleep.  He  was  over  seventy  then,  and  was 
used  to  having  a  nap  after  dinner. 

"Now  came  the  best  part  of  the  feast. 
Every  man  tiptoed  out  of  the  room,  over 
hauled  his  sketch-trap,  took  out  charcoal, 
color  tubes  and  brushes,  red  chalk,  whatever 
came  handy,  and  started  in  to  work — some 
standing  on  chairs  above  where  the  old  man 
sat  sound  asleep,  others  working  away  like 
mad  on  the  coarse,  whitewashed  walls,  mak 
ing  portraits  of  him — sketches  of  the  landing 
and  fish  houses  we  had  seen  during  our  wait 
ing — outlines  of  the  bar  and  background,  no 
[59] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

one  breathing  loud  or  even  whispering,  so 
afraid  they  would  wake  him — until  every 
square  foot  of  the  walls  were  covered  with 
sketches.  When  we  were  through,  someone 
coughed,  and  the  old  man  sat  up  and  began 
to  rub  his  eyes.  Pleased!  Well,  I  should 
think  so!  He  gave  one  bound,  made  a  tour 
of  the  room  studying  each  sketch,  dodged 
under  his  bar  and  began  to  set  up  things,  and 
would  have  continued  to  set  up  things  all  night 
had  we  permitted  it.  Every  spring  after  that, 
when  he  rewhitewashed  the  old  room,  he 
would  work  carefully  around  each  sketch,  the 
new  whitewash  making  a  mat  for  the  pictures. 
People  came  for  miles  up  and  down  the  bay 
to  see  them,  and  there  was  more  extra-dry 
and  trimmings  sold  that  summer  than  ever 
before.  Ever  after  that,  whenever  a  friend 
of  any  member  of  the  Stone  Mugs  went 
ashore  at  Cap  Tree  Island,  and  after  settling 
his  score  mentioned  incidentally  that  he  knew 
So-and-So  of  the  Mugs,  and  had  heard  of  the 
[60] 


THE    GENTLE    ART    OF    DINING 

wonderful   dinner,   etc.,   the  old   man   would 
always  push  his  money  back  to  him  with : 

1  'Not  a  cent — not  a  cent !  Stay  a  week 
and  order  what  you  want,  and  if  you  don't 
want  everything  in  the  house  I'll  get  my 
gun.'  " 

"Haven't  got  a  time-table,  have  you, 
Marny,"  asked  Boggs  feelingly,  "of  the 
boat  that  goes  to  Cap  Tree  Island?" 

"Do  you  no  good,  Boggs,"  answered  Jack 
Stirling.  "The  old  man  has  been  in  heaven 
these  ten  years.  I  knew  his  broiled  blue-fish 
— none  better.  Marny  is  right — they  were 
wonderful.  But  really,  Marny,  do  you  call 
that  a  good  dinner? — ten  men,  fifteen  bottles 
of  assorted  wines,  five  steaks,  five  broiled  fish, 
and " 

"Well,  what  else  would  you  call  it?  What 
would  you  want?"  retorted  Marny. 

"What  else?  Oh,  my  dear  Marny!  and 
you  ask  that  question !" 

"Wasn't  there  enough  to  eat?" 
[61] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

"Plenty." 

"Wine  all  right?" 

"Perfect." 

"Jolly  crowd  of  the  best  fellows  in  the 
world?" 

"Yes." 

"What  then?" 

"What  then,  you  fish-monger?  Why, 
just  one  woman!  Let  me  tell  you  of  a 
dinner!" 

Jack  was  on  his  feet  now,  his  hand  out 
stretched,  his  eyes  partly  closed  as  if  the  scene 
he  was  about  to  describe  lay  immediately 
beneath  his  gaze. 

"It  was  on  a  balcony  overlooking  St.  Cloud 
— all  Paris  swimming  in  a  golden  haze. 
There  were  violets — and  a  pair  of  long 
gray  gloves  on  the  white  cloth — and  a  wide- 
brimmed  hat  crowned  with  roses,  shading 
a  pair  of  brown  eyes.  Oh !  such  eyes !  'A 
pint  of  Chablis,'  I  said  to  the  waiter;  'sole 
a  la  Marguerey,  some  broiled  mushrooms, 
[62] 


15ut  the  perfume  of  the  violets  and  the  wav  she  l""kr<l  at  me. 


THE    GENTLE    ART    OF    DINING 

and  a  fruit  salad — and  please  take  the  can 
dles  away;  we  prefer  the  twilight.' 

"But  the  perfume  of  the  violets — and  the 
lifting  of  her  lashes — and  the  way  she  looked 
at  me,  and " 

Jack  stopped,  bent  over,  and  gazed  into 
the  smouldering  coals  of  the  now  dying  fire. 

"Go  on,  Jack,"  urged  Pitkin  in  an  encour 
aging  tone — they  had  lived  together  in  the 
same  studio  in  the  Quartier,  these  two,  and 
knew  each  other's  lives  as  they  did  their  own 
pockets, — or  each  other's,  for  that  matter. 

"No,  I'm  not  going  on — only  waste  it  on 
you  fellows.  That's  all.  Just  one  of  my 
memories,  my  boy.  But  it  comes  from  wet 
violets,  mark  you,  not  from  fry-pans,  cold 
bottles,  or  hot  fish,"  and  he  glanced  at 
Marny. 


PART    III 

With  Especial  Reference  to  a  Girl  in  a 
Steamer  Chair. 

"T"\ON'T  be  angry,  Colonel," — no  mor- 
JL^  tal  man  knows  why  Mac  calls  me 
"Colonel," — "but  would  you  mind  leaving 
that  red  rose  you've  got  in  your  button-hole 
outside  in  the  hall,  or  some  place  where  I 
can't  smell  it?  Red  roses  have  a  singular 
effect  on  me."  I  had  come  in  earlier  than 
the  others  this  afternoon  and  had  found  Mac 
alone. 

I  looked  at  Mac  in  astonishment.  Peculiar 
as  he  sometimes  is,  hatred  of  flowers  is  not 
one  of  his  eccentricities. 

"Why,  I  thought  you  loved  roses!" 

"I  do — all  except  red  ones." 

I  unpinned  the  rose  from  my  button-hole 
and  laid  it  in  a  glass  on  the  shelf  over  his 
wash-basin. 

[64] 


A    GIRL    IN    A    STEAMER    CHAIR 

"All  right;  anything  to  please  you,  Mac. 
Now  out  with  it;  give  me  the  name  of  the 
girl,  and  tell  me  why." 

Mac  laughed  quietly  to  himself  and  set 
tled  down  in  his  chair.  For  some  time  he 
did  not  speak. 

"Go  on;  I'm  waiting." 

"Oh,  it  brings  up  a  memory,  that's  all, 
Colonel.  You  heard  what  Stirling  said  about 
the  perfume  of  violets  bringing  back  to  him 
the  little  dinner  he  had  with  Christine  Le- 
voix  at  the  Bellevue  overlooking  the  Seine, 
didn't  you?" 

"Yes,  but  he  didn't  mention  the  girl's 
name." 

"I  know;  but  it  was  Christine.  I  remem 
ber  that  hat  and  the  gloves.  In  my  day 
they  were  black,  not  gray,  and  came  up  to 
her  shoulders,  like  Yvette's.  The  eyes, 
though,  never  changed,  no  matter  who  sat 
opposite.  Stirling  bought  a  lot  of  violets 
that  year;  so  did  some  of  the  others  in  the 
[65] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

Quartier,  until  the  Russian  carried  her  off  to 
Moscow,"  and  again  Mac  laughed  softly  to 
himself.  "Well,  perfumes  produce  that  same 
effect  on  me." 

"Of  violets?"  I  asked,  twisting  my  head 
to  look  into  Mac's  eyes. 

"No — tarred  hemp  and  roses."  Then  he 
added  slowly  and  thoughtfully,  as  if  he  were 
recalling  some  incident  in  his  past  life :  "Quite 
a  different  kind  of  girl,  my  boy,  from  Chris 
tine;  about  as  different  as — well,  there  isn't 
any  comparison.  Yes,  tarred  hemp  and  red 
roses;  funny  combination,  isn't  it? — and  yet 
I  never  catch  the  odor  of  one  without  smell 
ing  the  other.  And  the  whole  scene  comes 
back,  too,  every  detail:  the  rolling  ship;  the 
girl  as  she  lay  in  her  chair,  the  roses  in  her 
lap;  the  tones  of  the  Captain's  voice  (I  have 
sometimes  heard  them  in  my  sleep)  ;  the  glare 
of  the  overhead  light,  and  then  the  splash. 
Queer  things,  these  memories!" 

Mac  paused,  and  smoked  on  quietly. 
[66] 


A    GIRL    IN    A    STEAMER    CHAIR 

I  made  no  answer.  If  you  want  Mac  at 
his  best,  never  interrupt  him.  When  he  is 
in  one  of  his  reminiscent  moods  his  philos 
ophy,  his  knowledge  of  life,  his  wide  per 
sonal  experience,  his  many  adventures  by  land 
and  sea  make  him  the  most  delightful  of 
conversationalists,  while  his  choice  of  words 
and  marvellous  powers  of  description — talk 
ing  as  a  painter  talks,  one  who  sees  and  who, 
therefore,  can  make  you  see;  using  words  as 
some  men  do  pigments  with  all  the  force  of 
their  contrasts — make  his  descriptions  but  so 
many  brilliantly  colored  pictures.  Then  his 
voice !  Suddenly,  without  a  moment's  warn 
ing,  your  eyes  fill  up,  leaving  you  wondering 
why,  until  you  remember  some  throat  tone 
that  vibrated  through  you  like  the  note  of  a 
violin. 

When   he   is   in   one   of   these   moods   he 

rarely  looks  at  me  or  at  anyone  who  listens, 

especially  when  he  is  alone  with  some  one  of 

his  chums — and  we  two  were  alone  this  after- 

[67] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

noon,  it  being  Varnishing  Day,  and  all  of  the 
men  at  the  Academy.  He  looks  up  at  the 
ceiling,  lying  back  in  his  chair,  talking  to 
some  crack  or  stain  in  the  plastering,  or  drops 
his  head  and  talks  to  the  smouldering  coals, 
his  human  eyes  fixed  on  the  logs.  This  habit 
of  talking  to  whatever  is  within  the  reach  of 
his  hands  or  legs — his  brushes,  palette,  colors, 
the  chair  that  gets  in  his  way,  the  rug  he 
stumbles  over — is  characteristic  of  the  man; 
woodsmen  have  it  who  live  alone  in  great 
forests.  Mac's  explanation  is  that  he  lived 
so  much  alone  in  his  early  life  that  he  ac 
quired  the  habit  in  self-defence.  The  fire, 
however,  seems  to  understand,  never  answer 
ing  back  as  it  does  to  me  when  I  try  to  punch 
it  into  life,  but  simmering  away  like  a  slow- 
boiling  pot,  giving  out  a  steady  glow  for  hours 
as  it  listens,  nursing  its  heat  until  the  master 
has  finished  or  puts  on  another  log. 

Mac    refilled    his    pipe,    rested    the    tongs 
where  his  hand  could  grasp  them,  and  con- 
[68] 


A    GIRL    IN    A    STEAMER    CHAIR 

tinued,  his  big  shoulders  filling  the  chair,  the 
light  of  the  blaze  on  his  humorous,  kindly 
face. 

"There  are  great  contrasts  in  life,  my  boy, 
that  never  fail  to  interest  me — big  Rem 
brandt  things  that  stand  out  sharp  and  solid, 
sudden  as  the  exit  from  a  foul  shaft  into  a 
sunny  winter's  day,  white  and  cold.  And  the 
reverse  side — the  black  side.  That  is  the 
worst  of  these  contrasts,  the  darks  always 
predominate — out  of  a  yacht's  warm  cabin, 
for  instance,  into  a  merciless,  hungry  sea, 
without  a  moment's  warning.  No,  nothing 
to  do  with  my  memory  of  tarred  hemp  and 
red  roses;  only  to  make  my  point  clear  to 
you,"  and  Mac's  head  sank  the  lower  in  his 
chair.  "Did  you  ever  focus  your  mind,  for 
one  thing,  on  the  contrasts  that  the  two  sides 
of  a  nine-inch  brick  wall  of  any  house  in  town 
present?  Did  you  never  lie  in  your  bed,  with 
your  head  to  the  plaster,  and  wonder  what 
was  going  on  nine  inches  away  from  your 
[69] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

ears?  I  have;  I  do  it  now.  It  may  be  sor 
row  or  cruelty  or  death,  if  we  did  but  know 
— some  girl  mourning  for  her  lover;  some 
woman  crouching  in  fear;  some  silent  body, 
cold  in  a  sheet.  Not  always  so,  of  course; 
many  times  the  happiness  is  on  their  side  and 
all  the  misery  on  ours;  but  the  two  atmos 
pheres  are  never  alike.  Only  nine  inches  of 
wall !  Shut  it  out  as  we  may,  cover  it  with 
tapestries  or  pictures  or  paint,  it  is  still 
within  that  many  inches  of  our  ears.  What 
a  blessing  we  can't  see !  Life  would  be  a  hell 
for  some  of  us  if  we  saw  both  sides  of  its 
brick  walls  at  once.  I  try  now  and  then  to 
get  a  glimpse  of  both  sides  because  of  the 
effects  I  get  of  light  and  shadow — they  al 
ways  appeal  to  me.  When  I  do  I  often 
get  a  heart  wrench  that  upsets  me  for 
days,  and  yet  the  next  opportunity  I  am  at 
it  again." 

Once     more     Mac    paused     and     looked 
into  the  fire,  as  if  he  were  trying  to  recall  to 
[70] 


A    GIRL    IN    A    STEAMER    CHAIR 

his  mind,  among  its  glowing,  heaped-up  coals, 
some  picture  in  that  rich  past  of  his. 

"And  that  old  perfume  of  tarred  hemp 
and  roses,"  I  asked,  "does  that  suggest  one 
of  them?" 

"Yes,  one  of  the  strangest  I  ever  experi 
enced;  and  yet  it  was  only  one  of  the  things 
that  goes  on  every  day.  A  steamer's  deck 
was  the  brick  wall  this  time :  On  our  side  a 
cloudless  sky,  fresh  air,  light,  chairs  filling 
the  length  of  the  deck,  whisperings  in  cor 
ners,  two  lovers  hanging  over  the  rail,  some 
in  the  bow  away  from  intruders.  Now  and 
then  a  line  of  song  wafted  from  open  cabin 
windows.  Seaward,  a  stretch  of  steely  blue 
dominated  by  a  clear,  round  moon,  its  light 
flooding  a  pathway  of  silver  to  the  very  side 
of  the  ship,  a  pathway  along  which  angels 
might  have  stepped — were  stepping,  if  we 
could  have  seen. 

"This  was  one  of  the  times  when  I  had 
both  sides  of  the  wall  in  review;  she  did  not. 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

Her  heart  and  mind  were  on  other  things. 
No,  nothing  that  you  think,  old  man;  not 
another  Christine — I  left  all  that  behind  me; 
not  anybody  in  particular,  really;  just  a  girl 
I  met  on  board.  There  were  a  dozen  others 
as  pretty — prettier.  Our  steamer  chairs  hap 
pened  to  come  together,  that  was  all.  We 
were  but  two  days  out,  and  her  roses  were 
still  fresh — big  red  ones  that  some  of  her 
friends  had  sent  her.  They  lay  in  her  lap 
over  her  steamer  rug.  I  picked  them  up  for 
her  when  they  dropped  to  the  deck,  and  so 
the  acquaintance  began. 

"Such  a  happy  girl,  with  a  fresh,  sunburnt 
skin,  and  strong  chest,  and  capable,  earnest 
eyes;  no  nonsense  about  her,  no  coquetry." 

Mac  hesitated  for  an  instant  and  a  look 
of  peculiar  tenderness  came  into  his  face — 
one  I  always  remembered.  Then  he  went  on : 

"Just  a  plain,  straightforward  American 
girl,  with  a  good  mother  at  home  and  a 
matter-of-fact  father  who  had  sent  her  abroad 
[72] 


A    GIRL    IN    A    STEAMER    CHAIR 

with  an  aunt  who  was  flat  on  her  back  in  her 
cabin  most  of  the  time;  she  herself  looked  as 
if  she  had  never  known  a  day's  sickness  in 
her  life.  This  was  her  first  trip  abroad. 
Half  a  dozen  young  men  and  as  many  young 
girls  had  come  to  see  her  off,  and  her  share 
of  the  flowers  sent  on  board  had  been  the 
largest,  and  she  was  as  happy  over  it  as  a 
child  with  a  new  toy — that  kind  of  a  girl. 
She  wanted,  of  course,  to  know  about  Mt. 
Blanc  and  the  Rhigi,  and  whether  the  Salon 
would  be  open,  and  which  pictures  she  ought 
to  see,  and  what  at  the  Luxembourg — all  the 
questions  a  girl  asks  when  she  finds  you  can 
paint.  Her  joyousness,  though,  was  what 
appealed  to  me.  I  like  happy  people.  To 
her  the  deck  of  the  steamer  was  the  top  of 
a  great  hill  from  which  she  looked  down  on 
sunshine  and  peace;  no  clouds,  no  dark 
shadows;  only  perspectives  of  greater  happi 
ness  yet  to  come.  This  was  her  side  of  the 
wall. 

[73] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

"I  did  not  disturb  her  outlook.  What  use 
would  it  have  been?  Why  tell  her  of  what 
was  going  on,  for  instance,  under  her  very 
eyes?  Why  let  her  know  that  that  tightly 
built  young  man  who  seemed  to  be  so  de 
voted  to  the  pale,  hollow-eyed  gentleman  of 
sixty,  sitting  beside  him  in  the  smoking-room 
or  in  the  steamer  chairs — never  five  feet  away 
from  him  day  or  night — was  a  Scotland  Yard 
detective,  and  that  the  hollow-eyed  invalid 
would  have  a  pair  of  handcuffs  slipped  over 
his  white,  trembling  wrists  as  soon  as  the 
gang-plank  was  fastened  to  the  dock?  Or 
why  let  her  know  that  the  thoughtful,  clean 
shaven  young  man  who  now  spent  most  of 
his  time  in  walking  the  deck  had  never 
entered  the  smoking-room  since  the  first 
night,  when  the  purser  took  him  one  side 
and,  calling  him  by  a  name  not  on  the  pas 
senger  list  had  informed  him  in  measured 
tones  that  it  might  interfere  with  his  com 
fort  if  he  took  the  wrapper  from  another 
[74] 


A    GIRL    IN    A    STKAMKR    CHAIR 

pack  of  his  own  or  anybody  else's  cards  dur 
ing  the  remainder  of  the  voyage.  Neither 
did  I  tell  her,  that  third  night  out,  where  I 
had  spent  the  afternoon,  except  to  say  that 
I  had  been  with  Mr.  Hunter,  the  Chief  En 
gineer,  in  his  room  several  decks  below  where 
we  sat — down  among  the  furnaces  and  hot 
steam  and  plunging  pistons — adding  that  the 
Chief  was  a  great  friend  of  mine  and  had 
been  for  years.  If  you  ever  get  to  know 
him  as  I  do  he  may  some  time,  in  a  burst 
of  confidence,  open  the  drawer  of  a  locker 
behind  his  bunk  and  show  you  a  little  paper 
box,  and  inside  of  it  a  small  bit  of  copper 
about  the  size  of  a  big  cent  with  a  crossbar 
and  a  ribbon,  saying  that  it  was  for  gallant 
conduct  or  something  like  it. 

"But  that  has  got  nothing  to  do  with  my 
perfume  of  tarred  rope  and  roses — quite 
another  affair  altogether — an  affair  that  the 
Chief  and  I  had  had  some  previous  talk 
about;  and  so  I  was  not  surprised  when  his 

[75] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

messenger  approached  my  chair  and  the 
girl's,  and  said  in  a  low  voice,  bending  close 
to  me: 

'  'Mr.  Hunter's  compliments,  sir,  and  he 
would  like  to  see  you  in  his  room,  if  you  don't 
mind.  He  says  if  you  can't  come  it  will  be 
at  twelve  sharp,  and  you're  not  to  mention 
It  to  any  of  the  passengers,  sir.' 

"She  looked  at  me  curiously,  having 
heard  the  messenger's  words,  but  I  did 
not  explain,  and,  rising  quickly,  left  her 
with  the  roses  in  her  lap — her  last  bunch, 
she  told  me. 

"Hunter  met  me  at  the  door;  the  Second 
Engineer  and  the  ship's  Doctor  were  inside 
his  room. 

"  'That  stoker  died  about  an  hour  ago, 
wasn't  it,  Doctor?'  Hunter  asked,  turning  to 
the  ship's  surgeon. 

"  'Yes.' 

"These  men  are  accustomed  to  such  inci 
dents;  there  is  hardly  a  voyage  without  one 


A    GIRL    IN    A    STEAMER    CHAIR 

or  more  of  them.  To  me  it  was  but  the 
opening  of  another  crack  in  one  of  my  brick 
walls. 

'"What  of?'  I  asked. 

"  'Exhaustion;  want  of  food,  perhaps, 
and  the  heat.  The  heart  gave  out,'  answered 
the  Doctor  in  a  perfunctory  tone. 

"  'Do  many  of  them  go  that  way?'  I  asked. 

"  'Yes,  when  they  strike  the  furnaces  for 
the  first  time.  This  man  was  too  old — over 
fifty,  I  should  say — and  should  never  have 
been  taken  on,'  and  he  glanced  reprovingly 
at  Hunter. 

"  'He  begged  so  hard,'  interrupted  the 
Second  Engineer,  'I  let  him  on.  We  are 
short  of  men,  too,  on  account  of  the  strike- 
He  spoke  as  if  in  defence  of  his  Chief. 
'Didn't  look  to  me  to  be  so  old  till  he  caved 
in.  Shall  I  make  a  box  for  him,  sir?'  and  he 
turned  to  Hunter. 

"  'Yes,  and  paint  it.' 

"The  Chief  slipped  his  arm  through  mine, 

[77] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

led  me  to  a  seat  on  the  sofa  beside  his  desk, 
and  continued: 

"  'He  came  aboard  the  day  before  we  left 
New  York.  It  was  about  seven  o'clock  at 
night,  and  I  had  changed  my  clothes  and  was 
going  up-town  to  the  theatre.  I  stood  at  the 
end  of  the  gang-plank  for  a  minute  look 
ing  up  the  dock,  pretty  clean  of  freight  by 
that  time,  and  this  man  came  creeping  down 
along  the  side  of  the  ship,  looking  about  him 
in  a  way  I  didn't  like.  As  he  got  nearer  he 
stopped  under  a  dock  light,  fumbled  in  his 
pocket  and  brought  out  a  letter.  He  wasn't 
ten  feet  from  me,  and  so  I  could  see  his  face. 
He  read  it  two  or  three  times  over,  turning 
the  leaves,  and  then  he  slipped  it  back  into 
his  pocket  again  and  looked  up  at  the  ship's 
side;  then  he  saw  me  and  came  straight 
for  me. 

"  '  "I  must  go  home,"  he  said;  "  can  you 
take  me  on?" 

"  '  "What  at?"     I  got  a  look  into  his  eyes 


A    GIRL    IN    A    STEAMER    CHAIR 

then,  and  saw  he  was  no  thief;  seemed  more 
like  a  carpenter  or  a  bricklayer. 

"  '  "Anything  you  can  give  me." 

"  *  "Stoking?" 

"  '  "Yes,  if  there's  nothing  else." 

"  'Then  the  Second  Engineer  came  down 
the  gang-plank  and  I  turned  the  man  over  to 
him  and  went  uptown.  When  I  heard  he 
was  to  be  buried  I  sent  for  you,  just  as  I  had 
promised.' 

"I  had  talked  with  Hunter  about  a  burial 
at  sea — it  was  one  of  the  contrasts  I  had 
been  waiting  for.  They  had  occurred  often 
enough  in  my  many  crossings,  but  I,  like  the 
other  passengers,  was  never  informed;  such 
sights  are  not  proper  on  our  side  of  the  wall. 

"  'What  else  did  he  say  to  you?'  This 
question  I  addressed  to  the  Second  Engineer. 

" 'Nothin'.  I  put  him  on;  we  ought  to 
have  six  or  eight  more,  but  we  couldn't  get 
'em — short  now.' 

"  'Did  you  find  the  letter?'  I  asked. 

[79] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

"  'No;  Doctor  did.  He's  got  it  now.  He 
read  it.' 

'"What  did  it  say?' 

"  'Well,  near  as  I  can  remember,  some- 
thin'  about  his  comin'  home;  a  woman  wrote 
it.  He'll  tell  you  when  he  comes  back.' 

"  Td  like  to  see  where  he  worked.'  I 
was  stretching  the  crack  in  my  wall;  peering 
into  the  next  room,  finding  out  how  they  lived 
and  what  on — all  the  things  you  should  let 
alone,  not  being  my  business  and  the  man 
being  beyond  hope. 

'Take  him  down,'  said  Hunter,  'and 
show  him  the  furnaces.  Here,  better  peel  off 
that  coat  and  slip  on  my  overalls  and  this 
jacket,'  and  he  handed  me  the  garments  from 
a  rack  behind  his  door.  'Greasy  down  there ; 
and  look  out  for  those  ladders,  they're  al 
mighty  slippery  when  you  ain't  accustomed 
to  'em.' 

'This  way,  sir,'  said  the  Second  En 
gineer. 

[80] 


A    GIRL    IN    A    STEAMER    CHAIR 

"We  made  our  way  along  a  flat  iron  ledge 
— a  grating,  really,  beneath  which  lunged 
huge  pistons  of  steel — down  vertical  ladders 
into  a  cavern  reeking  with  the  smell  of  hot 
steam  and  dripping  oil.  All  about  were  stars 
of  electric  light  illumining  the  darkness,  out 
of  which  stood  strange  shapes — a  canebrake 
of  steel  rods,  huge  sawed-off  roots  of  pillar- 
blocks,  enormous  cylinders  rising  up  like 
giant  trees  from  out  a  jungle  of  tangled  steel. 
At  the  bottom  of  this  morass  a  great  boa 
constrictor  of  a  shaft,  smooth-skinned,  glis 
tening,  turning  lazily  in  its  bed  of  grimy 
water,  its  head  and  tail  lost  in  the  gloom. 
Beyond  this,  along  a  narrow  foot-path,  a  low 
open  door  leading  to  the  mouth  of  hell. 
Here  were  men  stripped  to  the  waist,  the 
sweat  from  their  reeking  bodies  making  flesh- 
colored  channels  down  their  blackened  skins. 
Some  were  shielding  their  faces  from  the 
blistering  heat  as  they  wrenched  apart  the 
fusing  fires  with  long  steel  bars;  others  dashed 
[81] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

into  the  mouths  of  a  hungry  furnace  shovel 
fuls  of  coal,  blinding  the  light  for  an  instant, 
the  white  sulphurous  breath  pouring  from  its 
blazing  nostrils.  On  one  side  before  the  row 
of  hot-mouthed  beasts  opened  a  smaller  cav 
ern,  its  air  choked  with  fine  black  dust;  still 
other  men  shovelled  here,  filling  iron  barrows 
which  they  trundled  out  to  more  half-naked 
men  before  the  scorching  furnaces.  A  new 
gang  now  joined  the  group,  men  with  clean 
faces  and  hands  and  half-scoured  backs  and 
breasts.  This  new  gang  had  had  a  wash  and 
four  hours  sleep  in  an  air  fouled  by  dust  and 
dead  steam.  At  sight  of  them  the  old  work 
ers  dropped  their  bars  and  shovels,  disap 
peared  through  the  door  by  which  we  had 
entered,  and  rolled  into  bunks  racked  up  one 
above  the  other  like  coffins  in  a  catacomb. 

"On  one  side  of  the  door  through  which 
the  new  gang  entered  was  an  inscription  in 
chalk.  The  leader  of  the  gang  stopped  and 
examined  it  carefully. 

[82] 


A    GIRL    IN    A    STKAMKR    CHAIR 

"  'Clean  stringers  inside  pocket,'  the  record 
said. 

"The  stringers  were  the  cross-beams  tying 
the  ship  together,  about  which  the  coal  was 
packed;  the  pocket  was  one  of  the  ship's 
bins.  These  instructions  showed  which  death- 
pit  was  to  be  worked  first. 

"The  Engineer  made  no  explanatory  re 
marks  as  I  looked  about.  It  was  all  there 
before  me.  The  man  with  the  letter  had 
stood  where  these  men  stood;  blistered  by 
the  same  heat,  befouled  with  the  same  grime, 
half  strangled  with  the  same  coal-dust;  had 
eaten  his  meals,  drunk  his  coffee,  staggered 
to  his  bunk,  been  carried  insensible  to  the 
small  square  room  on  the  deck  above,  laid 
on  a  cot,  and  was  now  dead  and  to  be  buried 
at  midnight.  That  was  all ! 

"Up  the  ladder  again  to  a  room  the  size 
of  a  state-room  with  the  berths  out.     Inside, 
on    a    plank    resting    on    two    supports,    lay 
[83] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

the  crude,  roughly  hewn  outline  of  a  man 
wrapped  in  canvas,  a  flattened  hump  show 
ing  the  feet  and  a  round  mass  the  head. 
Past  this  open  door  men  walked  carrying 
kettles  of  soup  for  the  steerage.  Outside  in 
the  corridor  were  heard  sounds  of  hammer 
ing;  the  box  was  being  made  ready. 

"Up  a  third  ladder  to  Hunter's  room.  I 
stopped  long  enough  to  replace  my  coat  and 
wash  the  grime  from  my  hands  and  then 
sought  the  deck. 

"She  was  still  in  her  steamer  chair,  the 
roses  in  her  lap.  Not  a  cloud  dimmed  the 
sky;  a  soft,  fresh,  sweet  air  blew  from  the 
moonlit  sea;  the  pathway  of  silver  was  still 
clear;  souls  could  go  to  God  straight  up  that 
ladder  without  missing  a  step,  so  bright  was 
it.  From  the  crowded  deck  came  the  sound 
of  voices;  some  low  and  muffled,  others  break 
ing  out  into  song  and  laughter. 

"  'Where  have  you  been?'  she  called  out. 
'What  did  the  Engineer  want?  Tell  me, 
[84] 


A    GIRL    IN    A    STEAMER    CHAIR 

please;   something   had  happened;    I   saw   it 
in  your  face.     Was  anyone  ill  ?' 

'Yes;  but  he  is  better  now,'  and  my  eye 
travelled  the  pathway  of  silver. 

'  'Oh,  I  am  so  sorry !     Shall  you  see  him 
again?' 

"  'Yes,  at  twelve.' 

"  'Tell  me  about  it;  can  I  help?' 

"  'No.' 

"  'Is  anyone  with  him — anyone  he  loves?' 

"  'No,  he  is  quite  alone.' 

"'Poor,    poor   fellow!      Give   him   these, 
please,'  and  she  laid  the  roses  in  my  hand. 

"Some    hours    later   the    messenger    again 
tapped  me  on  the  shoulder. 

"  'All  ready,  sir,  Mr.  Hunter  says.' 

"On  the  lower  deck,  close  to  the  sea,  a 
deck  slashed  with  racing  waves  in  a  storm, 
were  grouped  a  body  of  sailors  and  officers; 
all  had  their  coats  and  caps  on.  Against  the 
wall  of  the  ship  stood  the  Captain,  an  open 
book  in  his  hand.  Above  his  head  flared  a 
[85] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

bull's-eye  backed  by  a  ship's  reflector,  mark 
ing  the  high  light  in  the  composition.  Be 
neath  him,  almost  under  the  book,  which  cast 
a  shadow  like  the  outstretched  wings  of  a  bird, 
lay  a  black  box,  straight-sided  and  flat-topped. 
I  edged  my  way  through  the  encircling  crowd 
and  stood  nearer,  the  roses  in  my  hand. 

"The  words  now  fell  clear  and  strong  from 
the  Captain's  lips,  every  man  uncovering  his 
head. 

"  'Man  that  is  born  of  woman ' 

"I  reached  down  to  lay  the  flowers  on  the 
lid — loose,  as  she  had  given  them  to  me. 

"Hunter  tapped  me  on  the  arm.  He  was 
grave  and  dignified,  and  I  thought  his  voice 
trembled  as  he  spoke. 

'  'Better  twist  a  bit  of  tarred  marlin  round 
'em,  sir,'  he  whispered;  'he'll  lose  'em  if  you 
don't.  Hand  me  a  piece' — this  to  a  sailor. 
'That's  it,  sir;  a  little  tighter — so!' 

"  'He  cometh  up  and  is  cut  down  like  a 

flower ' 

[86] 


A    GIRL    IN    A    STEAMER    CHAIR 

"I  bent  over  and  laid  the  roses  on  the  box. 
The  men  pressed  closer  to  look.  Roses,  on 
a  man  like  him ! 

"Again  the  Captain's  reverent  tones  rang 
out: 

"  'We  therefore  commit  his  body  to  the 
deep ' 

"Two  sailors  stooped  down  and  raised  one 
end  of  the  box.  There  came  a  grating 
sound,  a  splash,  and  the  highway  of  silver 
was  broken  into  steps  of  light. 

"The  Captain  closed  his  book,  the  crowd 
opening  to  let  him  pass;  the  crew  went  back 
to  their  tasks — the  sailor  with  tarred  marlin 
to  finish  the  bight  of  the  cable  he  was  whip 
ping,  the  men  to  their  furnaces,  Hunter  to 
his  desk,  I  to  where  the  girl  reclined  in  her 
chair.  She  recognized  my  step  and  half 
raised  herself  toward  me,  as  if  eager  to  catch 
my  first  word. 

"  'Did  he  like  the  roses?'  she  asked,  her 
voice  full  of  tenderness. 
[87] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

"  'Yes.' 

"  'Where  did  you  put  them — by  his  bed 
side?' 

"  'No,  on  his  breast.' 

"  'Poor  fellow,  I'm  so  sorry  for  him !  Did 
you  tell  him  I  sent  them?' 

"  'He  knows.' 

"  'What  did  he  say?' 

"  'Nothing — but  he  will  some  day.' 

"Her  eyes  widened. 

'"When?    Where?' 

"  'In  heaven.' 

"The  eyelids  relaxed  again,  and  a  smile 
lighted  up  her  face.  She  saw  now  that  I  was 
not  in  earnest.  Then  a  sudden  thought  pos 
sessed  her. 

"  'What  is  his  name?'  The  inquiry  came 
quick  and  sharp  and  with  an  anxious  tone, 
as  if  she  had  been  remiss  in  not  asking  before. 

"  'He  has  none — not  aboard  ship.' 

"  'Has  no  name !     Why,  I  never  heard  of 
such  a  thing.     How  very  strange !' 
[88] 


The  men  pressed  closer  to  look.     "  Roses,  i>n  a  man  like  him  ! " 


A    GIRL    IN    A    STKAMKR    CHAIR 

"  'No,  not  among  stokers;  stokers  never 
have  any  names.  This  one  was  called  "Num 
ber  Seven."  '  " 

Mac  stopped  and  leaned  toward  the  fire, 
his  head  in  his  hands,  the  fingers  covering 
the  eyes.  Not  once  during  the  long  narrative 
had  he  looked  at  me.  He  had  been  speak 
ing  like  one  in  a  trance,  or  as  one  speaks  to 
himself  when  alone.  That  I  had  been  pres 
ent  was  of  no  consequence ;  I  was  no  more  than 
the  portraits  and  studies  on  the  walls,  not 
so  much  as  the  andirons  and  the  fire.  That 
I  had  listened  in  complete  silence  was  what 
.pleased  him.  This,  I  think,  is  one  reason 
why  he  so  often  unburdens  his  heart  to  me. 

Mac  straightened  his  back,  rose  to  his 
feet  and  took  a  turn  around  the  room,  rest 
lessly,  as  if  the  tale  had  stirred  other  memo 
ries  which  he  was  trying  to  banish;  then  he 
dropped  again  into  his  chair. 

"That's  what  I  mean  by  the  other  side  of 
[89] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

the  brick  wall,  old  man.     Makes  your  blood 
boil,  doesn't  it?     Did  mine." 

"And  the  girl  in  the  chair  never  knew?" 
"No,  and  never  will.  He  did;  he  looked 
back  as  he  mounted  the  silver  steps,  and 
pointed  her  out  to  the  angel  helping  him  up 
the  ladder.  God  knew  what  he  had  suffered, 
and  wiped  out  whatever  there  was  against 
him." 

There  was  a  tone  now  in  Mac's  voice  that 
thrilled  met  For  a  moment  I  did  not  trust 
myself  to  speak. 

"And  about  the  letter — did  you  read  it?" 
"Yes;  it  was  from  his  wife.  The  Doctor 
gave  it  to  me,  and  I  hunted  her  up.  Little 
place  outside  of  London  where  they  make 
bricks.  Only  two  rooms;  in  one  a  half- 
starved  daughter,  white  as  chalk.  She  had 
sent  for  him,  the  wife  said.  Same  old  story 
—told  a  hundred  times  a  day,  if  you  will  but 
listen  with  your  ears  to  some  wall.  The 
steerage  out  to  New  York;  the  landing  in  a 
[90] 


A    GIRL    IN    A    STEAMER    CHAIR 

strange  city;  the  weary,  hungry  hunt  for 
work;  money  gone,  clothes  gone,  strength 
gone — then  the  inevitable.  This  one  had 
made  one  last  effort,  even  to  giving  his  body 
to  be  burned.  The  white-faced  daughter 
wanted  to  know,  of  course,  all  about  it — they 
all  want  to  know;  but  I  didn't  tell  her — I 
lied !  I  said  he  had  had  heart  failure,  and 
that  they  had  buried  him  at  sea,  and  in  a 
coffin  like  any  other  passenger,  because  we 
were  only  three  days  out;  and  I  described  the 
service  and  the  roses,  and  how  sorry  the  pas 
sengers  were.  She  knows  the  truth  now. 
He's  told  her. 

"Go  get  your  rose,  old  man.  I  ought  to 
have  had  better  sense  than  to  rake  it  all  up. 
No  use  in  it.  Not  your  side  of  the  wall,  not 
my  side.  Let  me  smell  it.  Yes,  same  per 
fume.  Here,  put  it  back  in  your  button 
hole." 


PART    IV 

With  a  Detailed  Account  of  a  Dangerous 
Footpad. 

MAC  had  invited  three  or  four  of 
us  to  luncheon — Boggs,  Lonnegan, 
Marny,  and  myself.  These  feasts  were 
"Dutch"  in  the  strictest  sense,  the  sum  total 
paid  being  divided,  share  and  share  alike, 
between  the  host  of  the  day  and  his  guests. 
That  was  the  custom  among  the  students  in 
Munich  and  Paris,  even  at  Florian's  in  Ven 
ice,  and  the  custom  was  still  observed.  It 
did  away  with  unpleasant  comparisons — Lon- 
negan's  inherited  bank-account,  for  instance, 
and  Woods's  income  from  his  rich  aunt,  who 
refused  him  nothing,  in  contrast  to  my  own 
and  Boggs's  annual  earnings.  The  only  lib 
erty  given  to  the  host  of  the  day  was  the 
choice  of  restaurants.  At  Maroni's  we  could 
[92] 


A    DANGEROUS    FOOTPAD 

get  a  hot  sandwich  and  a  glass  of  beer  for 
fifteen  cents;  at  Brown's,  in  Twenty-eighth 
Street,  a  chop,  a  baked  potato,  and  a  mug  of 
bass  for  half  of  a  trade  dollar.  When  some 
one  of  the  less  opulent  had  sold  a  picture, 
and  had  become  temporarily  rich  over  and 
above  the  amount  due  for  the  month's  rent, 
Lonnegan,  or  Woods,  or  Pitkin  (Pitkin  had 
a  father  who  could  cut  off  coupons)  selected 
Delmonico's.  These  occasions  were  rare, 
and  ever  afterward  became  historic. 

This  day,  it  being  Mac's  turn,  he  selected 
Oscar  Pusch's,  on  Fourth  Avenue — a  modest 
little  beer-house  near  the  corner  of  Twenty- 
fourth  Street,  its  only  distinguishing  mark 
being  a  swinging,  double  shutter  door  and 
the  advertisement  of  a  brewery  in  the  win 
dow.  Inside  was  a  long  bar  drenched  with 
the  foam  of  countless  mugs  of  Hofbrau,  fac 
ing  a  line  of  tables  centred  by  cheap  castors 
and  dishes  of  cold  slaw,  and  flanked  at  one 
end  by  a  back  room.  This  last  apartment 
[93] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

was  for  the  elect.  One  table  was  always  re 
served  for  the  exalted;  of  this  group  Mac- 
Whirter  was  High  Priest. 

Here  often  at  night  Mac  held  forth  to  an 
admiring  crowd  of  young  painters  who.  be 
lieved  in  his  brush  and  who  loved  the  man 
who  wielded  it.  When  I  look  back  now 
down  the  vista  of  twenty  years  and  see  how 
fine  and  strong  and  superb  that  brush  was, 
how  true,  how  wonderful  in  color,  how  much 
better  than  any  other  painter  of  his  time — 
Barbizon,  London,  or  Dusseldorf — and  think 
of  how  many  lies  the  resident  picture  dealer 
told  his  patrons  to  discredit  Mac's  genius,  I 
always  experience  a  peculiar  hotness  under 
my  collar-button.  It  cools  off,  it  is  true, 
whenever  I  see  one  of  his  masterpieces  hung 
to-day  on  the  walls  of  the  redeemed.  My 
anger  then  turns  to  a  genial  warmth,  suffus 
ing  my  cheeks  and  permeating  my  being, 
especially  when  I  learn  the  sum  paid  for  the 
smallest  product  of  his  brush. 
[94] 


A    DANGEROUS    FOOTPAD 

"One  of  MacWhirter's,  sir;  one  of  his 
choicest;  painted  in  his  best  period,"  says  this 
same  fraud  to-day  (the  period,  remember, 
when  he  would  say,  "What  can  one  expect 
of  the  Hudson  Rivery  School,  sir?"),  and 
then  the  dealer  demands  a  price  which,  had 
it  been  paid  in  Mac's  earlier  days,  would 
have  resulted  in  his  breaking  all  students' 
rules  and  setting  up  Johannesburg  of  '41  in 
stead  of  the  simple  steins  of  the  Hofbrau 
with  which  Lonnegan,  Boggs,  and  the  rest 
of  us  were  being  regaled. 

The  hospitable  and  ever  alert  Oscar  did 
not  welcome  us  this  time,  but  a  new  waiter, 
who  sprang  at  Mac  as  if  he  had  been  his 
lost  brother — a  joyous  sort  of  waiter,  clean 
shaven  as  a  priest,  ruddy-cheeked,  blue-eyed, 
with  short,  tan-colored  hair  sticking  straight 
up  on  his  head,  looking  as  if  at  some  time  in 
his  life  he  had  been  frightened  half  out  of 
his  wits  and  had  never  been  able  to  keep  his 
hair  down  since. 

[95] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

The  appearance  of  this  overjoyed  indi 
vidual  produced  a  peculiar  effect  on  Mac. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Pusch  found  a  place  for  you  at 
last,  did  he,  Carl?"  he  burst  out.  "Glad 
you're  here,"  and  Mac  stepped  forward  and 
shook  the  waiter's  hand  with  more  than  his 
usual  warmth. 

Boggs  looked  at  me  and  winked.  What 
would  Mac  be  doing  next? 

"Some  member  of  the  royal  family,  Mac?" 
asked  Boggs,  when  the  waiter  had  left  the 
room  to  execute  Mac's  orders. 

"No,"  said  Mac,  unfolding  his  napkin, 
"just  plain  man." 

"I  know,"  said  Boggs,  "ran  off  with  a 
soprano  at  the  Imperial  Opera  House;  dis 
inherited  by  his  father;  fought  a  duel  with 
his  Colonel  on  account  of  her;  dismissed  from 
his  club ;  sought  refuge  in  flight  to  God's  free 
country,  where  for  years  he  worked  in  a  small 
cafe  on  Fourth  Avenue.  Was  known  for 
years  as  'Carl'  where — 

[96] 


A    DANGEROUS    FOOTPAD 

Mac  raised  his  eyes  at  Boggs. 

"Lively  imagination  you've  got,  Boggs. 
If  I  were  you  I " 

"On  the  death  of  his  father,  the  late 
Baron  Schweizerkase,"  continued  Boggs  in 
the  nasal  tone  of  an  exhibitor  of  wax  works, 
completely  ignoring  Mac's  interruption,  "the 
exile,  who  was  none  other  than  Prince 
Pumperknickel,  returned  to  his  estates,  where 
his  beautiful  and  accomplished  wife,  though 
not  of  royal  blood,  now  dispenses  the  hospi 
tality  of  his  noble  house  with  all  the  honors 
which " 

"Will  you  shut  up,  Boggs,"  cried  Lonne- 
gan.  "Your  tongue  goes  like  an  eight-day 
clock."  Then  he  turned  to  Mac.  "Seems  to 
me  I've  seen  that  waiter  before — last  sum 
mer,  if  I  remember.  Where  was  it?  Flo- 
rian's  or  the  Pantheon?" 

"No,  I  don't  think  so,"  said  Mac.  "Carl 
hasn't  been  out  of  the  country  for  two  years 
to  my  knowledge.  Much  obliged,  Oscar,  for 

[97] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

giving  him  a  place."  This  to  the  proprietor, 
who  was  now  beaming  across  the  bar  at  Mac. 
"You'll  find  Carl  all  right,"  and  he  nodded 
toward  the  waiter,  who  was  again  approach 
ing  the  table. 

"Everything  suit  you,  Carl?" 

"Oh,  yes,  yes,  Mr.  MacWhirter;  I  was 
comin'  to  see  you  about  it,  but  I  just  got 
back  from  Philadelphy."  The  man  seemed 
hardly  able  to  keep  his  arms  from  around 
Mac's  neck.  I've  seen  a  dog  sometimes  show 
that  peculiar  form  of  trembling  joy  when 
brought  suddenly  into  his  master's  presence 
after  a  long  absence,  but  never  a  man. 

Marny  now  spoke  up. 

"Tell  us  about  this  waiter,  Mac." 

"There's  nothing  to  tell;  just  one  of  my 
acquaintances,  that's  all.  Some  I  bow  to, 
some  I  shake  hands  with — Carl  is  one  of  the 
last,"  and  Mac  nodded  and  emptied  his  glass 
at  a  single  draught,  shutting  off  all  discussion. 
No  one  knew  better  than  Mac  how  to  avoid 
[98] 


A    DANGEROUS    FOOTPAD 

a  subject  on  which,  he  preferred  to  keep 
silence. 

On  the  way  back  to  the  Old  Building 
Marny  and  I  walked  together,  Lonnegan, 
Mac,  and  Boggs  behind. 

"Something  in  that  waiter  Carl,"  remarked 
Marny,  "or  Mac  wouldn't  have  shaken  hands 
with  him.  These  waiters  are  a  queer  lot; 
they're  never  in  the  same  city  more  than  a 
year.  I  drew  my  chair  up  to  a  table  in  Mos 
cow  two  years  ago  in  that  swell  cafe — forget 
the  name — outside  of  a  park,  and  sat  me 
down,  wondering  which  one  of  my  ragged 
languages  I  could  use  in  getting  something 
to  eat,  when  the  waiter  behind  my  chair 
leaned  over  and  said  in  perfect  English, 
'What  wine,  Mr.  Marny?'  He'd  waited  at 
Brown's,  on  Twenty-eighth  Street,  for  years. 
Hello!  Who's  Mac  talking  to? — a  street 
beggar!  Just  like  him!" 

We  were  crossing  the  Square  now  and 
nearing  the  Old  Building  and  No.  3.  There 
[99] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

was  evidently  some  dispute  over  the  beggar, 
for  Mac  was  apparently  defending  the  wom 
an,  while  the  others  were  objecting  to  her 
asking  for  alms. 

"They've  got  a  password  and  a  signal-call 
for  Mac,"  continued  Boggs;  "he  never  goes 
to  luncheon  but  there's  half  a  dozen  of  'em 
strung  along  his  route." 

We  had  now  reached  our  companions. 

"Did  you  give  that  tramp  anything, 
Mac?"  burst  out  Marny. 

"Let  not  your  right  hand  know  what  your 
left  hand  doeth,  my  boy,"  answered  Mac, 
with  a  wave  of  his  hand  as  he  strode  along. 

"Did  he,  Lonnegan?"  persisted  Boggs. 

"Yes,  and  wanted  to  know  where  she 
lived." 

"I  can  tell  you  where  she  lives,"  exploded 
Boggs.  "She  lives  in  a  brownstone  front 
somewhere  facing  the  Park.  Drives  up  Riv 
erside  every  Sunday  in  her  carriage,  and  all 
because  fools  like  you,  Mac,  support  her. 


A    DANGEROUS    FOOTPAD 

Only  last  week  a  man  I  know  gave  some 
pennies  to  a  woman  who  was  crying  with 
hunger,  with  two  little  babes  to  feed — 'For 
the  love  of  God,  kind  sir!'  and  all  that  sort 
of  thing — and  that  night,  going  home  from 
the  club,  he  found  her  on  a  doorstep  under 
a  gaslight  counting  out  her  earnings — all  the 
cents  in  one  pile,  all  the  dimes  in  another; 
then  the  quarters,  halves,  and  so  on.  She'd 
earned  more  money  that  day  than  he  had. 
When  she  saw  him  she  laughed,  and  went 
right  on  with  her  counting." 

Mac  was  now  entering  the  Building,  we 
following  him  upstairs,  the  discussion  still 
going  on.  Lonnegan  insisted  that  there  were 
city  charities  that  took  care  of  such  tramps; 
Boggs  interrupted  that  they  ought  to  be 
turned  over  to  the  police.  Marny  thought 
that  there  might  be  some  of  them  deserving, 
but  the  chances  were  that  the  greater  part  of 
them  were  too  lazy  to  work. 

Our  heads  were  now  level  with  the  top  of 
[101] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

the  Chinese  screen,  and  the  next  instant  the 
whole  party  were  inside  No.  3  and  warming 
themselves  at  MacWhirter's  wood  fire. 

Mac  hung  up  his  coat,  threw  some 
fresh  logs  on  the  andirons,  swept  up  the 
hearth,  and  dragged  up  the  chairs  for  his 
guests  alongside  of  some  of  the  other  ha 
bitues — Charley  Woods  among  them — who 
had  already  arrived  and  were  awaiting  our 
return. 

"Mac's  been  doing  the  noble  act  again," 
Boggs  burst  out;  "that's  why  we're  late. 
Shook  hands  with  a  red-headed  waiter  named 
Carl  down  at  Pusch's,  who  seemed  glad 
enough  to  eat  him  up;  then  he  emptied  his 
pockets  to  a  bag  of  bones  outside  with  a 
basket — 'God  knows  I  haven't  eaten  any 
thing,  kind  sir,  for  three  days.  Got  three 
children'  (Boggs's  drawl  was  inimitable). 
You  know  that  kind  of  hag.  He  would  have 
invited  her  to  dinner  if  we  hadn't  been  along. 
If  he  wasn't  a  natural  born  fool  with  his 
[  102] 


A    DANGEROUS    FOOTPAD 

money  it  might  do  Mac  some  good  to  prove 
to  him  that— 

"You  will  get  left  every  time,  Mac,"  in 
terrupted  Woods  from  his  chair,  "over  this 
foolishness  of  yours."  It  was  never  consid 
ered  rude  to  interrupt  Boggs — not  even  by 
Boggs.  "Half  of  these  beggars  are  dead 
beats.  I've  had  some  experience." 

"Never  'left'  when  you're  right,  Woods," 
shouted  back  Mac,  who  had  crossed  the 
room  to  his  basin  and  was  busy  washing 
his  brushes. 

"It's  never  'right,'  Mac,  to  allow  yourself 
to  be  buncoed;  and  that's  what  happened  to 
me  last  fall,"  retorted  Woods. 

Boggs  leaned  forward  in  his  chair  and 
fixed  his  eyes  on  Woods.  The  buncoing  of 
Charles  Wood,  Esquire — a  man  who  prided 
himself  on  knowing  everything — was  a  story 
so  delicious  that  not  a  word  of  it  must  be  lost. 
The  other  men  were  of  the  same  opinion,  for 
they  drew  their  chairs  closer  to  the  blaze,  par- 

[  103] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

ticularly  those  who  had  just  come  out  of  the 
keen  wind  in  crossing  the  Square. 

"You  don't  know,  of  course,  for  I  have 
never  told  you,"  Woods  continued,  when 
every  one  was  settled  comfortably;  "but  when 
I  was  real  pious — and  I  was  once — I  used 
to  oblige  my  dear  old  aunt  and  go  down 
to  the  Bowery  and  read  to  the  tramps  that 
were  hived  in  a  room  rented  by  the  church 
to  which  she  belonged.  I  would  give  them 
short  stories — touch  of  pathos,  broad  farce, 
or  dramatic  incident,  whatever  I  thought 
would  suit  them  best — from  'Charles  O'Mal- 
ley.'  'Boots  at  Holly  Tree  Inn,'  and  Hans 
Breitmann's  yarns.  I  got  along  pretty  well 
with  the  Irish,  Dutch,  and  English  dialects, 
but  a  new  story  just  out  at  that  time,  'That 
Lass  o'  Lowrie's,'  in  the  Lancashire  dia 
lect,  upset  me  completely.  I  didn't  know 
how  to  read  it  properly,  and  I  couldn't 
find  anyone  who  could  teach  me.  I  tried 
it  there  one  night,  and  after  making  a  first- 
[  104] 


A    DANGEROUS    FOOTPAD 

class  fizzle  of  it  I  suddenly  thought  that  in 
an  audience  representing  almost  every  na 
tionality  on  the  globe  there  might  be  some 
one  from  Lancashire,  and  so  I  stepped  again 
to  the  edge  of  the  platform,  told  them  why 
I  made  the  inquiry,  and  invited  anyone  from 
that  part  of  England  to  stand  up  so  that  I 
could  see  and  talk  to  him.  Nobody  moved, 
and  I  went  away  determined  never  to  read 
the  story  again. 

"The  next  day  I  was  pegging  away  at  my 
easel — it  was  when  I  had  my  studio  over 
Duncan's  grocery  store  on  Fourteenth  Street 
and  Union  Square,  next  to  Quartley's  and 
Sheldon's  rooms — you  remember  it — when 
there  came  a  rap  at  the  door,  and  there  stood 
a  young  fellow  about  twenty-five  years  of 
age,  dressed  in  a  shabby  suit  of  once  good 
clothes.  Not  a  tramp;  rather  a  good-looking, 
well-mannered  man,  who  had  evidently  seen 
better  days.  I  believe  that  you  can  always 
tell  when  a  man  has  been  a  gentleman;  there 
[105] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

is  something  about  the  cut  of  his  jib  that  in 
dicates  his  blood,  no  matter  how  low  he  may 
have  fallen;  something  in  the  quality  of  his 
skin,  the  lines  about  his  nose  and  the  way  it 
is  fastened  to  his  face ;  the  way  the  hair  grows 
on  his  temples,  and  its  fineness;  the  rise  of 
the  forehead;  and  the  ears — especially  the 
ears — small,  well-modelled  ears  are  as  true 
an  indication  of  gentle  blood  as  small,  well- 
turned  hands  and  feet.  I  have  painted  too 
many  portraits  not  to  have  found  this  out. 
This  fellow  had  all  these  marks. 

"He  had,  moreover,  a  way  of  looking  you 
right  in  the  eye  without  flinching,  following 
yours  about  like  a  searchlight  without  letting 
go  of  his  hold.  His  voice,  too,  was  the  voice 
of  a  man  of  some  refinement — a  reed-like 
voice,  like  a  clarionette,  well-modulated,  even 
musical  at  times,  and  with  an  intonation  and 
accent  which  showed  me  at  once  that  he  was 
an  Englishman. 

"  'I  heard  what  you  said  last  night  about 
[106] 


Not  :i  tramp;  rather  a  K" "nl-lookinR,  well-mannered  man.  wh"  had  evidently  seen 
better  day-. 


A    DANGEROUS    FOOTPAD 

the  Lancashire  dialect,'  he  began,  'but  I 
didn't  like  to  stand  up  to  speak  to  you.  I 
was  afraid  you  might  not  be  satisfied  with 
what  I  could  do  for  you.  But  I  am  in  such 
straits  to-day  that  I  couldn't  help  coming, 
and  so  I  asked  the  Superintendent  for  your 
address.  I  don't  want  any  money,  but  I  must 
have  some  food;  if  you  will  help  me  you  will 
do  a  kind  act.  I  am  out  of  money,  and  I 
may  never  get  any  more  from  home,  so  that 
what  you  do  for  me  I  may  not  be  able  to 
repay.  I  haven't  really  had  much  to  eat  for 
nearly  a  week  and  my  strength  is  giving  out. 
I  could  hardly  get  up  your  stairs.' 

"All  this,  remember,  without  giving  me  a 
chance  to  ask  him  a  single  question  and  with 
out  stopping  to  take  breath — just  as  a  book 
agent  rattles  on — he  standing  all  the  time  on 
my  door-sill,  his  hat  in  his  hand,  not  as  a 
beggar  would  carry  it,  but  as  some  well-bred 
friend  who  had  dropped  in  for  an  afternoon 
call.  Good  deal  in  the  way  a  man  holds  his 
[  107] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

hat,  let  me  tell  you,  when  you  are  sizing  a 
stranger  up.  That's  another  one  of  my 
beliefs. 

"I  had  brought  him  inside  now  and  he 
was  standing  under  my  skylight,  his  face  and 
figure  making  an  even  better  impression  on 
me  than  when  he  was  in  the  dark  of  the 
doorway. 

'  'And  you  speak  the  Lancashire  dialect, 
of  course?'  I  asked,  my  eyes  now  taking  in 
the  military  curl  of  his  mustache,  his  broad 
shoulders  and  the  way  his  really  fine  head 
was  set  upon  them. 

"  'No,'  he  answered;  'to  tell  you  the  truth, 
I  do  not — not  to  be  of  any  service  to  you. 
I  know  some  words,  of  course,  but  not  many. 
I  ought  to  be  able  to  speak  it  perfectly,  for 
my  father's  place  is  in  the  next  county;  but 
I  have  been  a  good  deal  away  from  home. 
I  didn't  come  for  that;  I  came  because  you 
seemed  to  me  last  night  to  be  the  sort  of  a 
man  I  could  talk  to;  I  meet  very  few  of 
[  108] 


them;  I  don't  like  to  stop  people  in  the  street, 
and  my  clothes  now  are  not  fit  to  enter  any 
one's  office,  and  it  would  do  no  good  if  I  did, 
for  I  know  no  one  here.' 

"  'Where  have  you  lived?'  I  asked. 

"  'Oh,  all  over;  Australia  part  of  the  time, 
three  years  in  Canada — 

"  'You  don't  look  over  twenty-five.' 

"He  dropped  his  eyes  now  and  looked 
down  at  the  floor. 

"  'I  wish  I  was,'  he  answered  slowly;  'I 
might  have  done  differently.  You  are  wrong, 
I  am  thirty-one — will  be  my  next  birthday. 
I  was  home  last  summer  to  see  my  father,  but 
I  only  stayed  an  hour  with  him.  He  wouldn't 
talk  to  me,  so  I  left  and  came  here.' 

"'Why  not?' 

"  'Well,  I'd  rather  not  go  into  that;  it's  a 
family  matter.' 

"  'Pretty  rough,  turning  you  out,  wasn't 
it?'  I  was  getting  interested  in  him  now. 

"  'No,  I  can't  say  that  it  was.  I  hadn't 
[  109] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

been  square  with  him — not  the  year  be 
fore.' 

"  'Well,  you  were  ready  to  do  the  decent 
thing  then,  I  hope?' 

"  'Yes,  but  my  Governor  is  a  peculiar  sort 
of  man  that  don't  forget  easily.  But  he's 
my  father  all  the  same,  and  so  I'd  rather  keep 
away  than  have  him  hate  me.  No — please 
don't  ask  me  anything  about  it.  I  don't 
think  he  was  quite  fair,  but  I'm  not  going 
to  say  so.' 

"I  had  him  in  a  chair  now  and  had  laid 
down  my  palette  and  brushes.  When  a  man 
is  thrown  out  into  the  world  by  his  father 
and  then  refuses  to  abuse  him,  or  let  anybody 
else  do  so,  there's  something  inside  of  him 
that  you  can  build  on. 

"I  handed  him  a  greenback.  'Go  down,' 
I  said,  'on  Sixth  Avenue  and  get  something 
to  eat  and  anything  else  you  need  for  your 
comfort,  and  then  come  back  to  me.' 

"He  folded  the  bill  up  carefully,  put  it  in 
[no] 


A    DANGEROUS    FOOTPAD 

his  waistcoat  pocket,  thanked  me  in  a  sim 
ple,  straightforward  way,  just  as  any  of  you 
would  have  done  had  I  loaned  you  an  equal 
amount  to  tide  you  over  some  temporary 
emergency,  and  with  the  bow  of  a  thorough 
bred  closed  my  door  behind  him  and  went 
downstairs. 

"While  he  was  gone  I  began  uncon 
sciously  to  let  my  imagination  loose  on  him. 
I  immediately  invested  him  with  all  the  attri 
butes  I  had  failed  to  discover  in  him  while 
he  stood  hat  in  hand  under  my  skylight. 
Some  young  blood,  no  doubt,  of  good  family, 
I  said  to  myself;  ran  through  his  allowance, 
shipped  off  to  Australia,  returns  and  is  for 
given.  Then  more  debts,  more  escapades. 
Father  a  choleric  old  Britisher,  who  gets  pur 
ple  in  the  face  when  he  is  angry — 'Out  you 
go,  you  dog;  never  more  shall  you  be  son  of 
mine !'  You  remember  George  Holland  as 
an  irate  father  of  the  old  school? — same  kind 
of  an  old  sardine.  No  question,  though,  but 
[in] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

that  his  son  was  in  hard  lines  and  on  the  verge 
of  suicide  or,  what  was  worse,  crime. 

"What,  then,  was  my  duty  under  the  cir 
cumstances  ?  What  would  my  own  Governor 
think  of  a  man  who  had  found  me  in  a  simi 
lar  strait  in  London,  penniless,  half-clothed, 
and  hungry,  and  who  had  turned  me  out 
again  into  the  cold? 

"Before  I  had  decided  what  to  do  he  was 
back  again  in  my  studio  looking  like  a  dif 
ferent  man.  Not  only  had  he  been  fed,  but 
he  was  clean-shaven  and  clean-collared. 

'  'I  took  you  at  your  word,'  he  said.  'I 
had  a  bath  and  bought  me  a  clean  collar. 
Here  is  the  change,'  and  he  handed  me  back 
some  silver.  'I  don't  want  to  promise  any 
thing  I  can't  do,  and  I  don't  say  I'll  pay  it 
back,  for  I  may  not  be  able  to,  but  I'll  try 
my  best  to  do  so.  Good-by,  and  thank  you 
again.' 

"  'Hold  on,'  I  said.  'Sit  down,  and  let 
me  talk  to  you.'  Now  right  here,  gentlemen, 

[112] 


A    DANGEROUS    FOOTPAD 

I  want  to  tell  you" — Woods  swept  his  eye 
around  the  circle  as  he  spoke,  then  rose  to 
his  feet  as  if  to  give  greater  emphasis  to  what 
he  was  about  to  say,  his  round  bullet-head, 
eye-glasses,  and  immaculate  shirt  collar  glis 
tening  in  the  overhead  light — "I  want  to  tell 
you  right  here  that  the  buying  of  that  clean 
collar  and  the  return  of  the  change  settled 
the  matter  for  me.  I'm  a  student  of  human 
nature,  as  most  of  you  know,  and  I  have  cer 
tain  fixed  rules  to  guide  me  which  never  fail. 
My  duty  was  clear;  I  would  play  the  Good 
Samaritan  for  all  I  was  worth.  I  wouldn't 
cross  over  and  ask  him  how  the  cripple  was 
getting  on;  I'd  walk,  down  both  sides  of  the 
street,  call  an  ambulance,  lift  him  in  to  a 
down-covered  cot  run  on  C  springs,  and 
trundle  him  off  to  flowery  beds  of  ease  or 
whatever  else  I  could  scrape  up  that  was 
comforting.  Now  listen — and,  Mac,  I  want 
you  to  take  all  this  in,  for  I  am  telling  this 
yarn  for  your  special  benefit. 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

"That  same  afternoon  I  took  him  up  to 
my  rooms — I  was  living  with  my  aunt  then 
up  on  Murray  Hill — opened  up  my  ward 
robe,  pulled  out  a  shirt,  underwear,  socks, 
shoes,  cut-away  coat,  waistcoat,  and  trousers; 
gave  him  a  scarf,  and  then  to  add  a  touch  to 
his  whole  get-up  I  picked  a  scarf-pin  from 
my  cushion  and  stuck  it  in  myself.  Next  I 
handed  him  a  cigar,  opened  up  a  bottle  of 
Scotch,  and  after  dinner — my  aunt  was  din 
ing  out,  and  we  had  the  table  to  ourselves — 
sat  up  with  him  till  near  midnight,  he  and  I 
talking  together  like  any  other  two  men  who 
had  met  for  the  first  time  and  who  had,  to 
their  delight,  found  something  in  common. 

"Nor  would  any  of  you  have  known  the 
difference  had  you  happened  to  drop  in  upon 
us.  No  reference,  of  course,  was  made  to 
his  condition  or  to  the  way  in  which  we 
had  met.  He  was  clean,  well-dressed,  well- 
mannered,  perfectly  at  ease,  and  entirely  at 
home.  You  could  see  that  by  the  way  in 


A    DANGEROUS    FOOTPAD 

which  he  shadowed  his  wine-glass  as  a  sign 
to  the  waiter  not  to  refill  it;  passed  the  end 
of  his  cigar  toward  me  that  I  might  snip  it 
with  the  cutter  attached  to  my  watch-chain, 
having  none  of  his  own,  of  course — a  fact 
he  made  no  comment  upon;  did  every 
thing,  in  fact,  down  to  the  smallest  detail 
(and  I  watched  and  studied  him  pretty 
closely)  that  any  one  of  you  would  have  done 
under  similar  circumstances;  all  of  which 
proved  his  birth  and  breeding,  and  all  of 
which,  you  will  admit,  no  man  not  born  to 
it  can  acquire  and  not  be  detected  by  one 
who  knows. 

"My  idea  was — and  this  is  another  one  of 
my  theories — that  you  can  restore  a  man's  en 
ergies  only  when  you  restore  his  self-respect, 
and  I  intended  to  prove  my  theory  on  this 
Englishman.  What  I  was  after  was  first  to 
bring  him  back  to  his  old  self — he  taking  his 
place  where  he  belonged,  shutting  out  the 
hideous  nightmare  that  was  pursuing  him — 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

and  then  get  him  a  situation  where  he  could 
be  self-sustaining.  This  done,  I  proposed  to 
write  to  his  father  and  patch  it  up  somehow 
between  them,  and  the  next  time  I  went 
abroad  we  would  go  together  and  kill  the 
fatted  calf,  haul  in  the  Yule  log,  summon  the 
tenants,  build  triumphal  arches,  and  all  that 
sort  of  thing. 

"The  following  morning  promptly  at  ten 
o'clock  he  rapped  at  my  studio  door.  Pitkin 
saw  him  and  thought  he  had  come  to  buy 
out  the  studio,  he  was  so  well  dressed — you 
remember  him,  Pit?" 

Pitkin  shook  his  head  and  smiled. 

"Then  commenced  the  hunt  for  work,  and 
I  tell  you  it  was  hard  sledding;  but  I  stuck 
at  it,  and  at  the  end  of  the  week  old  Porter- 
field  gave  him  a  position  as  entry  clerk  in  his 
foreign  department.  During  all  that  week 
he  was  spending  his  time  between  my  studio 
and  my  aunt's,  I  looking  after  his  expendi 
tures — not  much,  only  a  few  dollars  a  day. 
[116] 


A    DANGEROUS    FOOTPAD 

Every  evening  we  dined  at  home,  and  every 
evening  we  roamed  the  world :  mountain 
climbing,  pig  sticking,  pheasant  shooting  in 
Devonshire;  who  won  the  Derby,  and  why; 
English  politics,  English  art,  the  tariff — 
every  topic  under  the  sun  that  I  knew  any 
thing  about  and  a  lot  I  didn't,  he  leading  or 
following  in  the  talk,  his  eyes  fixed  on  mine, 
his  rich,  musical  voice  filling  the  room,  his 
handsome,  well-bred  body  comfortably  seated 
in  my  aunt's  easiest  chair. 

"And  now  comes  the  most  interesting  part 
of  this  story.  The  afternoon  before  he  was 
to  present  himself  at  Porterfield's,  about  five 
o'clock — an  hour  before  I  reached  home — 
he  rang  my  aunt's  front-door  bell;  told  the 
servant  that  I  had  been  called  suddenly  out 
of  town  for  the  night  and  had  sent  him  post 
haste  in  a  cab  for  my  portmanteau  and  over 
coat.  Then  he  tripped  upstairs  to  my  apart 
ment,  waited  beside  the  servant  until  she  had 
stowed  away  in  my  best  Gladstone  my  dress- 
[II?] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

suit,  shirt  with  its  links  and  pearl  studs,  col 
lars — everything,  even  to  my  patent-leather 
shoes;  and  then,  while  she  was  out  of 
the  room  in  search  of  my  overcoat,  emptied 
into  his  pockets  all  my  scarf-pins,  my  silver 
brandy-flask,  and  a  lot  of  knick-knacks  on  my 
bureau,  took  the  coat  on  his  arm,  preceded 
her  leisurely  downstairs,  she  carrying  the  bag, 
stepped  into  the  cab,  and  I  haven't  seen  him 
since!" 

"There,  Mac,  that  yarn  is  told  for  your 
especial  benefit.  What  do  you  think  of  it?" 

"I  think  you're  all  white,  Woods,  and  I'm 
glad  to  know  you,"  cried  Mac  as  he  grasped 
the  painter's  hand  and  shook  it  warmly. 

"Yes,  but  what  do  you  think  of  that  cur 
of  an  Englishman?" 

"I  think  he'll  live  to  see  the  day  he'll  regret 
the   mean   trick   he   played  you,"    answered 
Mac;  "but  that  doesn't  prove  your  contention 
that  all  beggars  are  frauds." 
[118] 


A    DANGEROUS    FOOTPAD 


"Did  you  try  to  catch  him?"  interrupted 


"No,  I  was  too  hurt.  I  didn't  mind  the 
money  or  the  clothes.  What  I  minded  was 
the  way  in  which  I  had  squandered  my  per 
sonality.  The  only  thing  I  did  do  was  to  tell 
Captain  Alec  Williams  of  our  precinct  about' 
him. 

"  'Smooth-talking  fellow?'  Williams  asked; 
'had  a  scrap  with  his  father?  Light-blue 
eyes  and  a  little  turned-up  mus-tache?  Yes, 
I  know  him — slickest  con'  man  in  the  busi 
ness.  We've  got  his  mug  in  our  collection; 
show  it  to  you  some  day,  if  you  come;'  and 
he  did." 

"And  the  great  reader  of  human  nature 
didn't  go  to  London  and  build  arches  and 
kill  the  fatted  calf,  after  all,"  remarked 
Lonnegan,  with  a  wink  at  Boggs. 

"No,"  retorted  Boggs;  "he  could  have 
suicided  himself  at  home  with  less  trou 
ble." 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

"Laugh  on,  you  can't  hurt  me !  I'm  im 
mune,"  said  Woods.  "I  learned  my  lesson 
that  time,  and  I've  graduated.  I'm  not  prac 
tising  any  theories,  old  or  new;  I'm  doing 
missionary  work  instead,  pointing  out  and 
running  down  dead  beats  wherever  I  see 
them.  No  more  men's  night  meetings  for 
me,  no  more  widows  with  twins — no  noth 
ing.  When  I've  got  anything  to  give  I  hand 
it  to  my  aunt.  It  isn't  a  pleasant  yarn — it's 
one  on  me  every  time.  I  only  told  it  to  Mac 
so  he  could  save  his  money." 

"I'm  saving  it,  Woods — save  it  every  day; 
got  a  lot  of  small  banks  all  over  the  place 
that  pay  me  compound  interest.  Now  I'll 
tell  you  a  yarn,  and  I  want  you  fellows  to  lis 
ten  and  keep  still  till  I  get  through.  If  there's 
any  doubts,  Boggs,  of  your  releasing  your 
grasp  on  your  talking  machine,  I'll  take  your 
remarks  now.  All  right,  enough  said.  Now 
hand  me  that  tobacco,  Lonnegan,  and  one  of 
you  fellows  move  back  so  I  can  get  up  closer, 
[  120] 


A    DANGEROUS    FOOTPAD 

where  you  can  all  hear.  This  story,  remem 
ber,  Woods,  is  for  you." 

When  Mac  talks  we  listen.  The  story, 
whatever  it  may  be,  always  comes  straight 
from  his  heart. 

"One  cold,  snowy  night — so  cold,  I  re 
member,  that  I  had  to  turn  up  my  coat  collar 
and  stuff  my  handkerchief  inside  to  keep  out 
the  driving  sleet — I  turned  into  Tenth  Street 
out  of  Fifth  Avenue  on  my  way  here.  It 
was  after  midnight — nearly  one  o'clock,  in 
fact — and  with  the  exception  of  the  police 
man  on  our  beat — and  I  had  met  him  on  the 
corner  of  the  Avenue — I  had  not  passed  a 
single  soul  since  I  had  left  the  club.  When 
I  got  abreast  of  the  long  iron  railing  I  caught 
sight  of  the  figure  of  a  man  standing  under 
the  gaslight.  He  wore  a  long  ulster,  almost 
to  his  feet,  and  a  slouch  hat.  At  sound  of 
my  footsteps  he  shrank  back  out  of  the  light 
and  crouched  close  to  the  steps  of  one  of 
those  old  houses  this  side  of  the  long  wall. 

[121] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

His  movements  did  not  interest  me;  waiting 
for  somebody,  I  concluded,  and  doesn't  want 
to  be  seen.  Then  the  thought  crossed  my 
mind  that  it  was  a  bad  night  to  be  out  in, 
and  that  perhaps  he  might  be  suffering  or 
drunk,  a  conclusion  I  at  once  abandoned 
when  I  remembered  how  warmly  he  was  clad 
and  how  quickly  he  had  sprung  into  the 
shadow  of  the  steps  when  he  heard  my  ap 
proach — all  this,  of  course,  as  I  was  walk 
ing  toward  him.  That  I  was  in  any  danger 
of  being  robbed  never  crossed  my  mind.  I 
never  go  armed,  and  never  think  of  such 
things.  It's  the  fellow  who  sees  first  who 
escapes,  and  up  to  this  time  I  had  watched 
his  every  move. 

"When  I  got  abreast  of  the  steps  he  rose 
on  his  feet  with  a  quick  spring  and  stood 
before  me. 

"  'I'm  hungry,'  he  said  in  a  low,  grating 
voice.  'Give  me  some  money;  I  don't  mean 
to  hurt  you,  but  give  me  some  money,  quick !' 
[  122  ] 


A    DANGEROUS    FOOTPAD 

"I  threw  up  my  hands  to  defend  myself 
and  backed  to  the  lamp-post  so  that  I  could 
see  where  to  hit  him  best,  trying  all  the  time 
to  get  a  view  of  his  face,  which  he  still  kept 
concealed  by  the  brim  of  his  slouch  hat. 

"  'That's  not  the  way  to  ask  for  it,'  I  an 
swered.  I  would  have  struck  him  then  only 
for  the  tones  of  his  voice,  which  seemed  to 
carry  a  note  of  suffering  which  left  me 
irresolute. 

"He  was  edging  nearer  and  nearer,  with 
the  movement  of  a  prize-fighter  trying  to  get 
in  a  telling  blow,  his  long  overcoat  conceal 
ing  the  movements  of  his  legs  as  thoroughly 
as  his  slouch  hat  did  the  features  of  his  face. 
Two  thoughts  now  flashed  through  my  mind: 
Should  I  shout  for  the  policeman,  who  could 
not  yet  be  out  of  hearing,  or  should  I  land 
a  blow  under  his  chin  and  tumble  him  into 
the  gutter. 

"All  this  time  he  was  muttering  to  him 
self:  'I'm  crazy,  I  know,  but  I'm  starving; 
[  123] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

nobody  listens  to  me.  This  man's  got  to 
listen  to  me  or  I'll  kill  him  and  take  it  away 
from  him.' 

"I  had  gathered  myself  together  and  was 
about  to  let  drive  when  he  grabbed  me 
around  the  waist;  we  both  slipped  on  the  ice 
and  fell  to  the  pavement,  he  underneath 
and  I  on  top.  I  had  my  knee  on  his  chest 
now,  and  was  trying  to  get  my  fingers  into 
his  shirt  collar  to  choke  the  breath  out  of 
him,  when  the  buttons  on  his  ulster  gave  way. 
I  let  go  my  hold  and  sprang  up.  The  man 
was  naked  to  his  shoes,  except  for  a  pair  of 
ragged  cotton  drawers! 

"  'Don't  kill  me,'  he  cried,  'don't  kill  me.' 
He  was  sobbing  now,  hat  off,  his  face  in  the 
snow,  all  the  fight  out  of  him. 

"I  know  a  hungry  man  when  I  see  him; 
been  famished  myself,  wolfish  and  desperate 
once — and  this  man  was  hungry. 

'  'Put  on  your  hat,  button  up  your  coat,' 
I  said,  'and  come  with  me.'  ' 

[124] 


A    DANGEROUS    FOOTPAD 

"Bully  for  you,  Mac;  that's  the  kind  of 
talk,"  cried  Boggs.  "Waltzed  him  right 
down  to  the  police  station,  didn't  you?" 

"No,  I  brought  him  to  this  very  room,  sat 
him  down  in  that  very  chair  where  you  sit, 
Boggs,"  answered  Mac,  "and  before  this 
very  fire.  He  followed  me  like  a  homeless 
dog  that  you  meet  in  the  street,  never  speak 
ing,  keeping  a  few  steps  behind;  waited  until 
I  had  unlocked  the  street  door,  held  it  back 
for  me  to  pass  through;  mounted  the  flight 
of  steps  behind  me — the  light  is  out,  as  you 
know,  at  that  hour,  and  I  had  to  scratch  a 
match  to  find  my  way;  remained  motionless 
inside  this  room  until  I  had  turned  on  the 
gas,  when  I  found  him  standing  by  that 
screen  over  there,  a  dazed  expression  on  his 
face — like  a  man  who  had  fallen  overboard 
and  been  picked  up  by  a  passing  ship. 

"He  had  been  discharged  from  his  last 
place  because  some  drunken  young  men  had 
lost  their  money  in  a  bar-room  and  had  ac- 
[125] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

cused  him  of  taking  it.  For  some  weeks  he 
had  slept  in  a  ten-cent  lodging-house.  Two 
days  before  someone  had  stolen  his  clothes, 
all  but  his  overcoat,  which  was  over  him. 
Since  that  time  he  had  been  walking  around 
half-naked. 

"  'Pull  that  coat  off,'  I  said,  'and  put  on 
these,'  and  I  handed  him  some  underwear 
and  a  suit  of  sketching  clothes  that  hung  in 
my  closet.  'And  now  drink  this,'  and  I 
poured  out  a  spoonful  of  whiskey — all  he 
needed  on  an  empty  stomach. 

"When  he  was  warm  and  dry — this  did 
not  take  many  minutes — we  started  down 
stairs  again  and  over  to  Sixth  Avenue. 
Jerry's  screens  and  blinds  were  shut,  but 
his  lights  were  still  burning;  some  fellows 
were  having  a  game  of  poker  in  the  back 
room. 

"  'Got  anything  to  eat,  Jerry?'  I  asked. 

"  'Yes,  Mr.  MacWhirter;  a  cold  ham  and 
some  hot  chowder,  if  they  ain't  turned  off  the 
[126] 


A    DANGEROUS    FOOTPAD 

steam.  Pretty  good  chowder,  too,  this  week. 
What'll  it  be — for  one  or  two?' 

"  'For  one,  Jerry.' 

"I  left  him  alone  for  a  while  sitting  at 
one  of  Jerry's  tables,  his  hungry,  eager  eyes 
watching  every  movement  of  the  old  man,  as 
a  starved  cat  watches  the  bowl  of  milk  you 
are  about  to  place  before  it. 

"When  he  had  devoured  everything  Jerry 
had  given  him,  I  moved  to  the  bar,  poured 
out  half  a  glass  of  whiskey  from  one  of 
Jerry's  bottles,  waited  until  he  had  swallowed 
it,  and  then  sent  him  upstairs  to  sleep  in  one 
of  Jerry's  beds." 

"And  that  was  the  last  you  ever  saw  of 
him,  of  course,"  broke  out  Woods,  with  a 
laugh. 

"No;  saw  him  every  day  for  a  month,  till 
he  got  work.  Saw  him  again  to-day  at 
Pusch's.  He  waited  on  us.  It  was  Carl." 


[127] 


PART    V 

In  which  Boggs  Becomes  Dramatic  and 
Relates  a  Tale  of  Blood. 

MR.  ALEXANDER  MACW.HIRTER'S  great 
picture,  "Early  Morning  on  the  East 
River,"  was  still  on  his  easel.  The  Hanging 
Committee  had  taken  the  outside  measure 
ment  of  the  frame;  had  hung  the  other  pict 
ures  up  to  the  line  of  this  measurement;  had 
inserted  the  title  and  price  in  the  official  cata 
logue,  and  were  then  awaiting  Mac's  finish 
ing  touches. 

MacWhirter  had  struck  a  snag  in  the 
middle  distance,  and  until  this  was  repainted 
to  his  satisfaction  the  picture  would  not  leave 
his  studio,  official  catalogue  or  no  official 
catalogue. 

On  this  afternoon  Lonnegan  was  the  first 
to  arrive.  The  great  architect  on  his  way 
[128] 


BOGGS    BECOMES    DRAMATIC 

downtown  must  have  dropped  in  upon  some 
social  function,  or  was  about  to  attend  one 
later  in  the  day,  for  he  wore  his  morning 
frock-coat,  white  waistcoat,  and  a  decoration 
in  his  button-hole — an  unusual  attire  for  Lon- 
negan  unless  the  affair  was  of  more  than  cus 
tomary  brilliancy  and  importance. 

"Let  up,  Mac,"  cried  Lonnegan  from  be 
hind  the  Chinese  screen,  as  he  looked  over 
its  top;  "the  light's  gone  and  you  can't  see 
what  you're  doing." 

"I've  got  light  enough  to  see  where  to  put 
my  foot,"  Mac  shouted  back. 

"Easy,  easy,  old  man!  Don't  smash  it; 
masterpieces  are  rare!  Let  me  have  a  look 
at  it.  Why,  it's  all  right !  What's  the  mat 
ter  with  it?" 

"Shadow  tones  under  the  cliffs  all  out  of 
key.  There  are  a  lot  of  wharves,  sheds,  and 
vessels  lying  there  half-smothered  in  mist.  I 
do  not  want  to  do  more  than  suggest  them, 
but  they've  got  to  be  right." 
[  129] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

"Well,  but  you  can't  see  to  paint  any 
longer.  Give  it  up  until  morning." 

"Haven't  got  time  !  Hanging  Committee 
has  sent  here  three  times  to-day." 

Marny,  Pitkin,  Boggs,  and  Woods  walked 
in  and  joined  the  group  about  Mac's  easel, 
a  "sick  picture"  (pictures  get  ill  and  die,  or 
recover  and  become  famous,  as  well  as  men) 
being  a  matter  of  the  very  first  importance. 

Each  new  arrival  had  some  advice  to  offer. 
Pitkin  thought  the  sky  reflections  were  not 
silvery  enough.  Woods  wanted  a  touch  of 
red  somewhere  on  the  sides  or  sterns  of  the 
boats,  with  a  "click"  of  high  light  on  their 
decks  to  relieve  them  from  the  haze  of  the 
background.  "Right  out  of  the  tube,  old 
man,  and  don't  touch  it  afterward.  It'll 
make  it  sing!"  Boggs  ignored  all  sugges 
tions  by  saying,  in  a  dictatorial  tone : 

"Don't  you  do  anything  of  the  kind,  Mac; 
you  don't  want  any  drops  of  red  sealing  wax 
spilt  on  that  middle  distance,  or  any  blobs  of 

[  130] 


BOGGS    BECOMES    DRAMATIC 

white;  only  make  it  worse.  All  you  need  is 
a  touch  here  and  there  of  yellow-white  against 
that  purple  haze.  But  you  don't  want  to 
guess  at  it.  This  East  River  is  a  fact,  not 
a  dream.  And  it's  right  here  under  our 
eyes.  Everybody  knows  it  and  everybody 
knows  how  it  looks.  If  you  want  it  true,  the 
best  thing  for  you  to  do  is  to  go  there  to 
morrow  morning  at  daylight  and  wait  until 
the  sun  gets  to  your  angle.  You  fellows  that 
insist  on  painting  things  out  of  your  heads 
instead  of  following  what  is  set  down  before 
you  will  run  to  seed  like  cabbages.  Why  you 
want  to  scoop  up  the  emptyings  of  every 
body's  wash-basins,  when  it  is  so  easy  to  get 
buckets  of  pure  water  fresh  from  nature's 
well,  is  what  gets  me." 

"Talks  like  an  art  critic,"  growled  Pitkin. 

"And  with  as  little  sense,"  added  Woods. 

"More  like  a  plumber,  I  should  think," 
remarked  Lonnegan  drily.  "Only  don't  you 
go  up  on  that  hill  at  five  o'clock  in  the  morn- 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

ing,  Mac,  or  you'll  never  finish  that  pict 
ure  or  anything  else.  Some  thug  will 
finish  you.  That's  the  worst  hole  on  the 
river — regular  den  of  thieves  live  under  that 
hill.  I  came  near  being  murdered  there  my 
self  once." 

Lonnegan's  statement  caused  a  sensation. 

"You  came  near  being  murdered,  you  dear 
Lonny?"  Mac  asked  nervously. 

"Yes." 

"When?" 

"Some  three  years  ago." 

Boggs,  who  was  still  smarting  under  the 
contempt  with  which  his  suggestion  had  been 
received,  now  shouted  in  the  voice  of  a  news 
boy  selling  an  afternoon  edition : 

"Full  and  graphic  account  of  the  hair 
breadth  escape  of  a  great  architect.  Sit 
down,  gentlemen,  and  listen  to  a  tale  that  will 
clog  your  veins  with  dynamite  and  make 
goose  shivers  go  up  and  down  your  spine. 
Here,  Lonnegan,  rest  your  immaculately  up- 
[  132  ] 


BOGGS    BECOMES    DRAMATIC 

bolstered  body  in  this  chair  and  tell  us  all 
about  it.  Put  up  your  brushes,  Mac;  I'll  help 
you  wash  'em.  Everybody  draw  up  to  the 
fire."  (Here  Boggs  dropped  into  his  own 
chair.)  "The  modern  Moses  is  going  to  tell 
us  how  he  was  pulled  out  of  the  bulrushes 
and  why  he  has  an  excuse  for  still  walking 
around  among  his  fellow-men  instead  of 
being  tucked  away  in  some  comfortable  ceme 
tery  on  a  hill  under  a  mausoleum  of  his  own 
designing. 

"Ladies  and  gentlemen" — Boggs  was 
again  on  his  feet,  a  ring  in  his  voice  like  that 
of  a  showman — "it  is  my  especial  privilege, 
and  one  of  the  greatest  honors  of  my  life,  to 
introduce  to  you  this  afternoon  the  distin 
guished  architect,  Mr.  Archibald  Perkins 
Lonnegan,  who ' 

"Will  you  keep  still!"  cried  Pitkin,  put 
ting  both  hands  on  Boggs's  shoulder  and 
forcing  him  into  his  chair.  "Sit  on  him, 
Marny!" 

[  133] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

Mac  by  this  time  had  laid  his  palette  on 
his  painting  table  and  had  moved  to  the  fire. 

"You  never  told  me  anything  about  that, 
Lonny." 

"Well,  don't  know  that  I  did;  'twas  some 
time  ago." 

"You're  sure  that  you  aren't  really  mur 
dered,  me  long-lost  che-ild?"  whined  Boggs 
in  an  anxious  tone;  these  changes  of  manner, 
tone,  and  gesture  of  the  Chronic  Interrupter, 
— imitating  in  one  sentence  the  newsboy,  in 
another  the  showman,  and  now  the  anxious 
mother — were  as  much  a  part  of  his  person 
ality,  and  as  much  enjoyed  by  the  coterie, 
despite  their  constant  protests,  as  the  bubbling 
good  nature  which  inspired  them. 

"Feel  that,"  said  Lonnegan,  tapping 
his  biceps  as  he  frowned  at  Boggs,  "and 
you'll  find  out  how  much  of  a  corpse  I 
am." 

Boggs  plump  fingers  squeezed  the  corded 
muscles  of  the  speaker  with  the  dexterity  of 
[134] 


BOGGS    BECOMES    DRAMATIC 

a  surgeon  hunting  for  broken  bones.  Then 
he  cast  his  eyes  heavenward. 

"Saved  by  a  miracle,  gentlemen.  Thank 
God,  he  is  still  spared  to  us!  Now  go  on, 
you  fashion-plate !  When,  where,  and  in 
what  part  of  your  valuable  and  talented  per 
son  were  you  almost  murdered?" 

Everybody  was  now  seated  and  had  his  pipe 
filled,  all  except  Lonnegan,  who  stood  on  the 
rug  with  his  slender,  well-built  and,  to-day, 
well-dressed  body  in  silhouette  against  the 
blazing  logs,  his  shapely  legs  forming  an 
inverted  V. 

"This  isn't  much  of  a  story.  I  wouldn't 
tell  it  at  all  if  it  wasn't  to  save  Mac's  life. 
There  are  two  or  three  places  under  that 
East  River  hill  where  it  is  unsafe  to  walk 
even  in  broad  daylight,  let  alone  in  the  gray 
of  the  morning.  When  I  tried  it  I  was  look 
ing  for  one  of  my  foremen — or,  rather,  for 
one  of  his  derrick-men.  I  knew  the  street, 
but  I  didn't  know  the  number.  After  din- 
[135] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

ner  I  started  up  Third  Avenue,  turned  to 
Avenue  A,  and  found  that  my  only  way  to 
reach  the  place  was  down  a  long  street  lead 
ing  to  the  river,  flanked  on  each  side  by  bar 
ren  lots  used  as  dumping-grounds  and  dotted 
here  and  there  with  squatters'  shanties  built 
of  refuse  timber,  old  tin  roofs,  and  junk; 
gas  lamps  a  block  apart,  with  the  sidewalks 
flagged  only  in  the  centre. 

"I  went  myself  because  I  wanted  the  der 
rick-man,  and  I  wanted  him  at  seven  o'clock 
on  Monday  morning,  and  I  knew  he'd  come 
if  I  could  see  him. 

"Half-way  down  this  long  street,  say  two 
blocks  from  the  avenue,  which  was  brilliantly 
lighted  and  thronged  with  people — it  was 
Saturday  night — I  saw  the  lights  of  a  bar 
room,  the  only  brick  building  fronting  either 
side  of  the  walk." 

"Were  you  rigged  out  in  this  royal  ap 
parel,  Lonny?"  broke  in  Boggs. 

"No;  I  was  in  a  dress-suit  and  wore  an 
[136] 


BOGGS    BECOMES    DRAMATIC 

overcoat.  Without  thinking  of  the  danger, 
I  stepped  inside  and  walked  up  to  the  bar 
keeper — a  villainous-looking  cutthroat,  in  his 
shirt  sleeves. 

"  'I  am  looking  for  a  man  by  the  name  of 
Dennis  McGrath,'  I  said;  'I  thought  some  of 
you  men  might  know  him.' 

"The  fellow  looked  me  all  over,  and  then 
he  called  to  two  men  sitting  at  the  table  be 
hind  the  stove.  As  he  spoke  I  caught  the 
flash  of  a  wink  quivering  on  his  eyelid — the 
lid  farthest  from  me.  Nothing  uncovers  the 
workings  of  a  man's  brain  like  a  carefully 
concealed  wink.  It  may  mean  anything  from 
ridicule  to  murder. 

"One  of  the  men  winked  at  got  up  from  a 
table  and  approached  the  bar,  followed  by  a 
larger  man,  with  a  face  like  a  bull  terrier. 

"  'What  yer  say  his  name  is — McGrath?' 

"All  this  time  his  eyes  were  sizing  me  up, 
scrutinizing  my  hat,  my  shirt-studs,  watch- 
chain,  overcoat,  gloves,  down  to  my  shoes. 
[  137] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

The  smaller  man — 'Shorty,'  the  barkeeper 
called  him — now  repeated  the  larger  man's 
question. 

"  'Did  yer  say  his  name's  McGrath? 
What's  he  do?' 

"  'He  is  a  derrick-man.' 

"Shorty  was  now  well  under  the  light  of 
the  bar.  He  had  a  scar  over  one  damaged 
eye  and  a  flattened  nose,  the  same  blow  hav 
ing  evidently  wrecked  both;  over  the  other 
was  pulled  a  black  cloth  cap;  around  his 
throat  was  a  dirty  red  handkerchief,  no  collar 
showing — a  capital  make-up  for  a  stage  vil 
lain,  I  thought,  as  I  looked  him  over,  espe 
cially  the  handkerchief.  Even  Mac  here 
would  look  like  a  burglar  with  his  hair 
mussed,  collar  off,  and  a  red  handkerchief 
tied  around  his  throat. 

"The  barkeeper  piped  up  again:  'Get  a 
move  on,  Shorty,  and  help  the  gent  find  the 
Mick.' 

"'Shure!  I  know  him.  He's  a-livin' 
[138] 


BOGGS    BECOMES    DRAMATIC 

under  de  rocks.  Come  'long,  Boss.  I'll  git 
him.' 

"Two  more  men  stepped  out  of  the  gloom; 
one,  in  a  cap  and  yellow  overcoat,  went  be 
hind  the  bar  and  slipped  something  into  his 
pocket;  then  the  two  lounged  out  of  the  room 
and  shut  the  door  behind  them.  I  began  to 
take  in  the  situation.  The  purpose  of  the 
wink  was  clear  now.  I  was  in  a  dive  in  a 
deserted  street,  unarmed  and  alone,  and  sur 
rounded  by  cutthroats.  If  I  tried  to  find 
McGrath  with  any  one  of  these  men  as  a 
guide  I  would  be  robbed  and  thrown  over 
the  cliff;  if  I  attempted  to  go  back  I  would 
land  in  the  clutches  of  the  man  in  the  yellow 
overcoat  and  his  companion.  All  this  time 
the  barkeeper  was  leaning  over  the  bar,  his 
eyes  fixed  on  my  face.  My  only  hope  lay  in 
a  bold  front. 

"'All  right,'  I  said  to  Shorty;  'how  far 
is  it?' 

"  'Oh,  not  very  fur — 'bout  t'ree  blocks.' 

[  139] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

"I  stepped  out  into  the  night. 

"Down  the  long  street  on  the  way  to  the 
river  stood  three  men — the  man  in  the  yellow 
overcoat,  his  companion,  and  one  other. 
They  separated  when  they  saw  me,  the  one 
in  the  overcoat  retracing  his  steps  toward  the 
dive  without  looking  my  way,  the  others 
sauntering  on  ahead.  I  walked  on,  meditat 
ing  what  to  do  next.  I  could  throttle  Shorty 
and  take  to  my  heels,  but  then  I  would  have 
to  reckon  with  the  pickets  who  might  be  be 
tween  me  and  the  bar-room. 

"Sometimes,  when  in  great  danger,  a  sud 
den  inspiration  comes  to  a  man;  mine  came 
out  of  a  clear  sky. 

"  'Hold  on,'  I  said  to  Shorty — we  were 
now  half  a  block  from  the  dive.  'Wait  a 
minute;  I  have  nothing  smaller  than  a  ten- 
dollar  bill,  and  I  want  to  give  you  something 
for  your  trouble.  I'll  run  back  and  get  the 
barkeeper  to  change  it.  Stay  where  you  are; 
I  won't  be  a  minute.' 
[ 


BOGGS    BECOMES    DRAMATIC 

"I  turned  on  my  heel  and  walked  back 
toward  the  dive  with  a  quick  step,  as  if  I  had 
forgotten  something.  The  man  with  the  yel 
low  overcoat  saw  me  coming  and  stepped 
into  the  street  as  if  to  intercept  me.  Shorty 
gave  two  low  whistles,  and  the  man  stepped 
back  to  the  sidewalk  again.  I  reached  the 
doorstep  of  the  dive.  All  the  men  were  now 
between  me  and  the  river,  the  one  in  the 
yellow  overcoat  but  a  short  distance  from 
the  bar-room,  Shorty  waiting  for  me  where 
I  left  him.  With  the  same  hurried  move 
ment  I  swung  back  the  door,  stepped  inside, 
stripped  off  my  overcoat,  folded  it  close, 
threw  it  over  my  arm,  and,  before  the  bar 
keeper  could  realize  what  I  was  doing,  pulled 
my  hat  close  down  to  my  ears,  jerked  the 
lapels  of  my  dress-coat  over  my  shirt- 
front  to  hide  the  white  bosom,  dashed  out 
of  the  door  and  sprang  for  the  middle  of  the 
street." 

Here  Lonnegan  stopped  and  puffed  away 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

at  his  pipe.  For  a  minute  every  man  kept 
still. 

"Go  on,  Lonny,"  said  Mac,  the  intensity 
of  his  interest  apparent  in  the  tones  of  his 
voice. 

"That's  all,"  said  Lonnegan.  "The 
change  of  coats  and  slight  disguise  of  hat 
and  lapels  threw  them  off  their  guard.  The 
outside  pickets  thought,  when  I  burst  through 
the  door,  that  I  was  somebody  else  until  I 
was  too  far  away  to  be  overtaken.  That's 
what  saved  my  life." 

"And  you  call  that  an  adventure,  you 
fake!"  cried  Boggs.  "Ran  like  a  street  dog, 
did  you,  and  hid  under  your  mammy's  bed?" 

"Well,  what's  the  matter  with  the  yarn," 
retorted  Lonnegan;  "it's  true,  isn't  it?" 

"Matter  with  it?  Everything!  No  point 
to  it,  no  common  sense  in  it;  just  a  fool  yarn ! 
You  go  out  hunting  trouble  with  your  imag 
ination  on  edge,  like  a  scared  child.  You 
meet  a  man  who  offers  to  conduct  you  gra- 


BOGGS    BECOMES    DRAMATIC 

tuitously  to  a  house  up  a  back  street;  you 
agree  to  pay  him  for  his  trouble;  you  make 
a  lame  excuse  to  dodge  him,  he  relying  on 
your  word  to  return,  and  then  you  take 
to  your  heels  and  cheat  him  out  of  his  pay. 
No  yarn  at  all;  just  a  disgraceful  bunco 
game !" 

The  Circle  were  now  in  an  uproar  of 
laughter,  everybody  talking  at  once.  Marny 
finally  got  the  floor. 

"Boggs  is  right,"  he  said,  "about  Lonne- 
gan's  conduct.  It  is  extraordinary  how  low 
an  honest  man  will  sometimes  stoop.  Lon- 
negan's  life  among  the  aristocrats  of  Murray 
Hill  is  undermining  his  high  sense  of  honor. 
Now  I'll  tell  you  a  story  of  an  escape  that 
really  has  some  point  to  it." 

"Is  this  another  fake  murder  yarn?"  asked 
Boggs.  "We  don't  want  any  more  fizzles." 

OO  9 

"Pretty  close  to  the  real  thing — close 
enough  to  turn  your  hair  gray.  About  fif 
teen  years  ago — 

[143] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

"Now  hold  on,  Marny,"  interrupted 
Boggs,  "one  thing  more.  Is  this  out  of  your 
head,  like  one  of  your  muddy,  woolly  land 
scapes,  or  is  it  founded  on  fact?" 

"It's  founded  on  fact." 

"Got  any  proof?" 

"Yes,  got  the  pistol  that  saved  my  life. 
It's  on  a  shelf  in  my  studio  downstairs.  If 
anybody  doubts  my  story  I'll  bring  it  up. 
About  twelve  or  fifteen  years  back " 

"He  said  fifteen  a  moment  since,"  grum 
bled  Boggs  in  an  undertone  to  himself,  "now 
he's  qualifying  it.  First  knock-down  for  the 
doubters.  Go  on." 

"Well,  say  fifteen  then;  my  memory  is  not 
good  on  dates ;  my  brother  and  I  made  a  trip 
to  the  Peaks  of  Otter,  just  over  the  North 
Carolina  line.  I  was  a  boy  of  twenty  and 
he  was  a  man  of  thirty-two.  He  was  a  dead 
shot  with  a  rifle  or  pistol  and  could  knock  a 
cent  to  pieces  edgewise  at  fifty  yards.  While 
I  painted,  he  scalped  red  squirrels  and  chip- 


BOGGS    BECOMES    DRAMATIC 

munks  with  a  long  Flobert  pistol  that  carried 
a  ball  the  size  of  a  buckshot;  a  toy  really,  but 
true  as  a  Winchester. 

"We  found  the  Peaks,  or  rather  the  peak 
we  climbed,  a  sugar-loaf  of  a  mountain  with 
almost  perpendicular  slopes  near  its  top, 
crowned  by  a  cluster  of  enormous  boulders. 
From  its  crest  one  can  see  all  over  that  part 
of  the  State.  Half-way  up  we  stopped  at  a 
small  tavern,  inquired  the  way  to  the  top, 
borrowed  two  small  blankets  of  the  landlord, 
and  bought  some  cold  meat  and  bread  and  a 
few  teaspoonfuls  of  tea.  These  we  put  in  a 
haversack,  and  leaving  my  heavy  painting- 
trap  we  continued  on  about  three  o'clock  in 
the  afternoon  to  climb  the  peak.  The  only 
things  we  carried,  outside  of  the  provisions 
and  blankets,  were  my  pocket  sketch-book 
and  the  Flobert  pistol.  It  was  the  worst  I 
have  ever  done  in  all  my  mountain  climbing. 
Sometimes  we  edged  along  a  precipice  and 
sometimes  we  pulled  ourselves  up  a  cliff  al- 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

most  perpendicular.  There  was  no  doubt 
about  the  path — that  was  plainly  marked  by 
sign-boards  and  blazed  trees  and  the  wear  of 
many  feet,  and  then  again  it  was  perfectly 
plain  that  it  was  the  only  way  up  the  moun 
tain. 

"We  reached  the  top  about  sundown  and 
found  a  cabin  built  of  logs,  with  one  window, 
a  sawed  pine  door  with  a  bolt  inside,  a  rusty 
stove  and  pipe,  and  a  low  bed  covered  with 
dry  straw.  Scattered  about  were  two  or  three 
wooden  stools,  and  on  the  window-sill  stood 
a  tin  coffee-pot  and  two  tin  cups. 

"When  it  began  to  grow  dark  and  the  chill 
of  the  mountains  had  settled  down,  we  started 
a  fire  in  the  stove,  put  on  the  pot,  dumped  in 
our  tea,  and  began  to  spread  out  our  pro 
visions.  Then  we  lighted  one  of  the  candles 
the  inn  people  had  given  us,  and  ate  our 
supper. 

"About  ten  o'clock  a  puff  of  wind  struck 
the  stovepipe  and  scattered  the  ashes  over  the 
[146] 


BOGGS    BECOMES    DRAMATIC 

floor.  The  next  instant  the  growl  of  distant 
thunder  reached  our  ears.  Then  a  storm 
burst  upon  the  mountains,  the  lightning  strik 
ing  all  about  us.  This  went  on  for  two 
hours — after  midnight  really;  we  couldn't 
sleep,  and  we  didn't  try  to.  We  just  sat  up 
and  took  it,  expecting  every  minute  that  the 
shanty  would  be  tumbled  in  on  top  of  us. 
About  one  o'clock  the  rain  slackened,  the 
wind  went  down,  and  we  could  hear  the  growl 
of  the  thunder  as  the  lightning  played  havoc 
on  the  peak  to  the  north  of  us.  Then  we 
bolted  the  door  to  keep  the  wind  from  blow 
ing  it  in  should  the  storm  return,  rolled  up 
in  our  blankets  on  our  bed  of  straw  and 
leaves,  and  fell  asleep,  leaving  the  matches 
close  to  the  candle. 

"We  had  hardly  dropped  off  when  we 
were  awakened  by  a  pounding  at  the  door. 
In  the  dead  of  night,  remember,  on  top  of  a 
mountain  that  a  cat  could  hardly  climb  in  the 
daytime,  and  after  that  storm! 
[H7] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

"We  both  sprang  up,  scared  out  of  our 
wits.  Then  we  heard  a  man's  voice,  rough 
and  coarse,  and  in  a  commanding  tone : 

"  'Open  the  door!' 

"I  was  on  my  feet  now.  My  brother 
caught  up  his  pistol,  slipped  in  a  cartridge, 
and  poured  the  balance  of  the  ammunition 
into  his  side-pocket;  then  he  called: 

'"Who  are  you?' 

"  'Don't  make  any  difference  who  we  are,' 
came  another  voice,  sharper  and  in  a  higher 
key.  'You  don't  own  this  shanty.  Open  the 
door,  damn  you,  or  we'll  break  it  in !' 

"We  might  have  handled  one  man;  two  or 
more  were  out  of  the  question.  My  brother 
stepped  across  the  bed,  backed  into  the 
shadow  away  from  the  rays  of  the  flickering 
firelight,  cocked  the  pistol,  and  nodded  to  me. 
I  slipped  back  the  bolt. 

"Two  men  entered.  One  had  a  brown, 
bushy  beard,  a  low  forehead,  and  ugly,  un 
certain  mouth.  He  was  stockily  built,  with 
[148] 


BOGGS    BECOMES    DRAMATIC 

stout  legs  and  short,  powerful  arms  and 
hands.  The  other  was  tall  and  lanky,  with 
a  hatchet  face  and  cunning,  searching  eyes- 
eyes  that  looked  at  you  and  then  looked  away. 
He  wore  a  slouch  hat  and  homespun  clothes 
and  high  boots,  in  which  were  stuffed  the 
bottoms  of  his  trousers.  As  he  followed  the 
shorter  man  inside  the  cabin  he  had  to  stoop 
to  clear  the  top  of  the  door-jamb. 

"We  saw  that  they  were  not  mountaineers 
— their  dress  showed  that;  nor  did  they  look 
like  the  men  we  had  seen  in  the  village.  Both 
were  drenched  to  the  skin,  the  legs  of  their 
trousers  and  boots  reeking  with  mud,  the 
water  still  dripping  from  their  hats. 

"The  shorter  man  looked  at  me  and  then 
ran  his  eye  around  the  room. 

"  'Where  is  the  other  one?'  he  asked  in 
the  same  domineering  tone. 

"  'Here  he  is,'  answered  my  brother  coolly, 
from  behind  the  bed. 

"The  two   men  peered  into,    the   shadow, 

[  149  ] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

where  my  brother  sat  crouched  with  his  back 
to  the  logs,  the  pistol  on  his  knee  within 
reach  of  his  hand.  From  where  I  stood  I 
could  catch  the  red  glint  of  the  forelight 
flashing  down  its  barrel.  The  men  must  have 
seen  it  too. 

'  'We're  goin'  to  chuck  some  wood  in  this 
'ere  stove.  Got  any  objections?'  asked  the 
tall  man,  pulling  his  wet  slouch  hat  from  his 
head  and  beating  the  water  out  of  it  against 
the  pile  of  firewood.  The  tone  was  a  little 
less  brutal. 

"  'No,'  answered  my  brother  curtly. 

"The  tall  one  reached  over  the  pile,  picked 
up  a  log  and  shoved  it  in  the  stove.  Then 
the  two  stretched  themselves  out  at  full 
length  and  looked  steadily  at  the  blaze,  the 
steam  from  their  wet  clothes  filling  the  room. 
No  other  word  was  passed,  either  by  the  men 
or  by  my  brother  or  myself,  nor  did  we 
change  our  positions.  I  sat  on  one  of  the 
stools  and  my  brother  sat  in  the  corner  where 
[ISO] 


BOGGS    BECOMES    DRAMATIC 

he  could  draw  a  bead  if  either  of  the  men 
showed  fight.  Three  o'clock  came,  then  four, 
then  five,  and  then  the  cold  gray  light  which 
tells  of  the  coming  dawn  stole  in  between  the 
cracks  of  the  cabin  and  the  broken  window. 
At  the  first  streak  of  light  the  tall  man  lifted 
himself  to  his  feet,  the  short  man  followed, 
and  swinging  wide  the  door  the  two  stalked 
out  to  the  farthest  edge  of  the  pile  of  boulders 
overlooking  the  plain,  where  they  squatted 
on  their  haunches,  their  eyes  toward  the  east. 
We  took  our  positions  on  a  rock  behind  them, 
a  little  higher  up.  Any  move  they  made 
would  come  under  the  fire  of  my  brother's 
toy  gun.  The  sun's  disk  rose  slowly — first  a 
peep  of  the  old  fellow's  eye,  then  half  his 
cheek,  and  then  his  round,  jolly  face  wreathed 
in  smiles.  When  the  bottom  edge  of  his  chin 
had  swung  clear  of  the  crest  of  the  distant 
mountain  range  the  tall  man  leaned  over  his 
companion  and  said  in  a  decisive  tone: 

"  'Well,  Bill,  she's  up,'  and  without  a  word 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

to  either  of  us  they  swung  themselves  through 
the  opening  in  the  boulders  and  disappeared." 

The  coterie  had  listened  in  their  usual 
absorbed  way  whenever  Marny  had  the  floor. 
His  experience,  like  Mac's,  covered  half  the 
world.  Boggs  had  not  taken  his  eyes  from 
Marny's  face  during  the  entire  recital. 

"And  that's  all  you  know  about  them?" 
asked  Lonnegan  in  a  serious  tone. 

"Except  what  the  landlord  told  us,"  con 
tinued  Marny  in  answer,  turning  to  Lonne 
gan.  "The  two  men,  he  said,  had  stopped  at 
the  tavern  about  nine  o'clock  that  night,  had 
asked  who  was  on  top,  and  had  hurried  on; 
all  they  wanted  was  a  stable  lantern,  which 
he  lent  them,  and  which  they  didn't  return. 
He  had  never  seen  either  of  them  before,  and 
they  didn't  pass  the  tavern  on  their  way 
back." 

"What  did  you  think  of  the  affair?"  asked 
Pitkin  in  a  serious  tone  of  voice. 


BOGGS    BECOMES    DRAMATIC 

"We  had  only  two  conclusions.  They  had 
either  come  to  rob  us,  and  were  scared  off  by 
the  toy  pistol,  or  they  were  carrying  out  a 
wager  of  some  kind." 

"And  it  took  you  all  night  and  the  next 
day  to  find  that  out?"  exclaimed  Boggs  in  a 
tone  of  assumed  contempt.  "Really,  gentle 
men,  this  whole  afternoon  should  go  an  rec 
ord  as  the  proceedings  of  a  kindergarten.  Just 
think  what  rot  we've  had :  Lonnegan  prom 
ises  a  poor  workingman  a  job  and  takes  to 
his  heels  to  cheat  him  out  of  his  pay;  Marny, 
who,  like  Mac,  poses  as  a  philanthropist,  and 
claims  to  feed  the  hungry  and  clothe  the 
naked,  refuses  shelter  to  two  half-drowned 
tourists  who  come  up  to  see  the  sunrise,  and 
instead  of  hustling  round  to  get  'em  hot  tea 
and  grub,  he  posts  his  big  brother  in  a  corner 
with  a  gun  where  he  can  blow  the  tops  of  their 
heads  off.  Rot — all  of  it!  But  what  I  ob 
ject  to  most  is  the  'let-down'  at  the  tag-end 
of  each  of  these  yarns.  You  work  up  to  a 
[153] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

climax,  and  nothing  happens.  Just  like  one 
of  these  half-baked  modern  plays  we've  been 
having — all  the  climax  in  the  first  act,  and  a 
dreary  drivel  from  that  on  till  the  curtain 
drops.  I  expected  Marny's  yarn  would  taper 
off  in  a  hand-to-hand  death  struggle;  both 
men  thrown  over  the  cliff;  the  finding  of  their 
mangled  bodies,  impaled  on  the  trees,  by  the 
sheriff,  who  had  tracked  them  for  years,  and 
who  promptly  identified  both  scoundrels,  one 
as  'Dead  House  Dick'  and  the  other  as  'Mur 
der  Pete' ;  a  vote  of  thanks  to  the  two  heroes 
by  the  State  legislature,  one  of  whom,  thank 
God!  is  still  with  us" — and  he  bowed  grand 
iloquently  at  Marny — "and  a  ring-down  with 
a  beautiful,  unknown  woman,  supposed  to  be 
an  heiress,  creeping  in  at  twilight  to  weep 
over  their  graves,  all  the  stage  lights  turned 
down  and  a  low  tremolo  going  on  in  the  or 
chestra.  Tamest,  deadest  lot  of  twaddle  I've 
heard  around  this  fire !  Now  let  me  tell  you 
a  yarn  that  means  something.  Blood  this 
[154] 


time — red  blood.  None  of  your  dress-suit 
and  warmed-up  tea  and  toy-pistol  advent 
ures." 

Everybody  straightened  up  in  his  chair  to 
get  a  better  view  of  Boggs.  The  Chronic 
Interrupter  was  about  to  appear  in  a  new 
role.  The  speaker  opened  his  coat,  tossed 
back  the  lapels  as  if  to  give  his  plump  body 
more  room,  and  rose  slowly  to  his  feet,  his 
black  diamond-pointed  eyes  glistening,  his  lips 
quivering  with  suppressed  merriment.  It  was 
evident  that  Boggs  was  loaded  to  the  muzzle; 
it  was  also  evident,  from  the  unusual  ear 
nestness  of  his  manner,  that  he  was  about 
to  fire  off  something  of  more  than  usual 
importance. 

"No  preliminaries,  mind  you.  Right  to 
the  spot  in  a  jump.  This  happened  in  Stam- 
boul  the  winter  I  made  those  sketches  of  the 
mosques." 

Mac  looked  up,  an  expression  of  surprise 
in  his  face.  He  thought  he  knew  every  act 
[155] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

of  Boggs's  life  from  his  cradle  up — they 
being  bosom  chums.  That  Boggs  had  even 
been  in  the  East  was  news  to  him.  Boggs 
caught  the  look  and  repeated  his  opening  in 
a  louder  voice. 

"In  Stamboul,  remember,  across  the  Galata 
from  Pera.  I  had  finished  the  flight  of  mar 
ble  steps  and  entrance  of  the  Valedee,  and 
was  looking  around  for  another  subject,  when 
a  Turk  with  a  green  scarf  around  his  fez 
(that  showed  he'd  been  to  Mecca),  who  had 
been  keeping  off  the  crowd  while  I  painted, 
offered  to  carry  my  trap  to  the  Mosque  of 
the  Six  Minarets  up  in  the  Plaza  of  the  Hip 
podrome.  A  man  who  has  been  to  Mecca 
is  generally  to  be  trusted,  so  I  handed  him 
my  kit  and  followed  his  lead.  On  the  way 
to  the  plaza  he  stopped  beside  a  low  wall 
and  pointed  to  an  opening  in  the  ground.  I 
looked  down  and  saw  a  flight  of  stone  steps. 

"  'This  is  not  for  the  Effendi  to  paint,'  he 
said,  'but  it  is  something  for  him  to  see.  It 


is  the  great  underground  cistern  where  the 
water  was  kept  during  the  sieges.' 

"That  suited  me  to  a  dot — caverns  always 
appeal  to  me — and  down  I  went,  followed  by 
the  green  fez.  Down,  down,  down,  into  a 
big  vaulted  chamber,  the  roof  supported  on 
marble  columns  running  back  into  the  gloom, 
only  the  nearby  ones  in  relief  where  the  light 
from  the  opening  above  fell  upon  their  white 
shafts,  very  much  as  a  forest  looks  at  night 
when  a  torch  is  lighted.  Stretching  away  was 
a  dirt  floor,  uneven  in  places,  and  away  back 
in  the  half-gloom  I  could  make  out  the  sur 
face  of  a  great  pool.  Now  and  then  some 
thing  would  strike  the  water,  the  splash  re 
verberating  through  the  cavern. 

"When  my  eyes  became  more  accustomed 
to  the  darkness  I  could  see  men  moving  about, 
dragging  ropes,  and  beyond  these  a  dull  light, 
like  that  from  a  grimy  cellar  window.  This, 
the  Turk  said,  was  the  other  exit,  the  one 
nearest  to  the  Mosque  of  the  Six  Minarets; 
[157] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

the  men,  he  added,  were  rope-makers;  some 
of  them  lived  here  and  only  left  the  cisterns 
at  night,  as  the  daylight  blinded  them.  So  I 
followed  on,  the  Turk  ahead,  my  kit  in  his 
hand. 

"In  the  centre  of  the  enormous  cavern, 
half-way  between  the  light  of  the  street  open 
ing  above  the  steps  and  the  distant  cellar- 
window  light,  I  came  to  a  circle  of  big  stone 
columns  standing  close  together,  enclosing  a 
space  not  much  bigger  than  this  room  of 
Mac's.  They  were  of  marble  and  rather 
large  for  their  height,  although  it  was  so  dark 
that  I  could  not  see  the  roof  distinctly.  At 
this  instant  one  of  those  indefinable  chills, 
which  with  me  always  foretells  danger,  crept 
over  me.  I  called  to  the  Turk.  There  was 
no  answer;  only  the  sound  of  his  feet,  but 
quicker,  as  if  he  were  running.  Then  a  feel 
ing  took  possession  of  me  of  someone  follow 
ing  me — that's  another  one  of  my  safeguards. 
I  turned  my  head  quickly  and  caught  the  edge 
[158] 


BOGGS    BECOMES    DRAMATIC 

of  a  man's  body  as  it  dodged  behind  the  col 
umn  I  had  just  passed.  Then  a  head  was 
thrust  from  around  the  column  in  front,  then 
another  on  the  side — rough  looking  brutes, 
bareheaded  and  frowzy.  There  was  no  ques 
tion  now — the  Turk  was  their  accomplice  and 
had  led  me  into  this  trap.  These  fellows 
meant  business.  Not  backsheesh,  but  mur 
der,  and  your  body  in  the  pool !"  Here 
Boggs's  manner  became  more  serious.  The 
suppressed  smile  had  vanished. 

"I  was  better  built  in  those  days  than  I 
am  now,"  he  continued  in  a  graver  tone;  "not 
so  fat,  and  could  run  like  a  sand-snipe,  and 
it  didn't  take  me  long  to  decide  what  to  do. 
To  reach  the  staircase  was  my  only  hope. 

"I  whirled  suddenly,  struck  the  brute  be 
hind  the  rear  column  full  in  the  face  before 
he  could  raise  his  hands,  sprang  over  his  body, 
and  ran  with  all  my  might  toward  the  light 
at  the  foot  of  the  staircase.  If  you  thought 
you  were  running,  Lonnegan,  up  that  long 

[159] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

street,  you  should  have  seen  me  light  out.  It 
was  a  race  for  life  over  an  uneven  pavement, 
where  I  might  stumble  any  moment,  four 
men  pursuing  me,  then  three,  then  one.  I 
could  tell  this  from  their  footfalls.  The 
light  grew  stronger;  I  turned  my  head  for  a 
second  to  size  up  my  opponent.  He  was 
younger  than  the  others,  was  naked  to  the 
waist,  and  wore  only  a  pair  of  trunks.  His 
bare  feet  made  hardly  a  sound.  I  was  within 
fifty  yards  now  of  the  lower  step,  running  like 
a  deer,  my  wind  almost  gone.  If  I  could 
reach  that  and  bound  up  into  the  daylight,  he 
would  be  afraid  to  follow.  The  light  foot 
falls  came  closer;  he  was  within  twenty  feet 
of  me;  I  could  hear  his  heavy  breathing  and 
smothered  curses.  My  foot  was  now  within 
a  few  feet  of  the  steps;  one  spring  and  I 
would  be  safe.  I  put  forth  all  my  strength, 
miscalculated  the  bottom  step,  and  fell  head 
long  on  the  steps !  The  next  instant  his  body 
struck  mine  with  the  impact  of  a  tiger  fall- 
[160] 


BOGGS    BECOMES    DRAMATIC 

ing  upon  his  prey,  flattening  me  to  the  steps 
and  grinding  my  lips  into  the  sand  covering 
the  stones — I  can  taste  it  now.  His  fingers 
tightened  about  my  throat.  In  my  agony  I 
braced  myself  and  rolled  over,  partly  throw 
ing  him  off.  Then  my  eyes  lighted  on  a  long 
curved  knife  with  a  turquoise-studded  handle. 
A  man  notes  these  things  in  a  moment  like 
this.  I  minded  even  a  spot  of  rust  on  the 
blade. 

"Again  his  fingers  tightened;  my  breath 
was  going.  That  peculiar  swelling  of  the 
tongue  and  dryness  which  sometimes  comes 
with  fever  filled  my  mouth.  The  knife  was 
now  tightly  gripped  in  his  right  hand,  his  fin 
gers  twisting  my  shirt  collar  into  a  tourniquet. 
I  straightened  my  back,  gathered  all  my 
strength,  and  lunged  forward.  The  knife 
flashed,  and  then  a  horrible  thing  happened!" 

Boggs  stopped  and  began  mopping  his 
face  with  his  handkerchief.  The  memory  of 
the  fight  for  his  life  seemed  to  have  strangely 
[161] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

affected  him.  No  one  of  the  coterie  had  ever 
seen  him  so  stirred,  and  no  one  had  ever 
dreamed  that  he  could  tell  a  story  with  so 
much  real  dramatic  power.  In  the  few  mo 
ments  in  which  he  had  been  speaking  the 
room  was  almost  breathless  except  for  the 
tones  of  his  voice. 

"Go  on,  Boggs,  don't  stop!"  said  Lon- 
negan. 

"In  the  struggle  for  mastery  the  point  of 
the  dagger  pressed  against  my  heart.  There 
came  a  sudden  lunge —  Oh,  I  guess,  boys, 
I  won't  go  any  further;  I  never  like  to  think 
of  the  affair.  I'd  no  business  to  tell  it;  al 
ways  affects  me  this  way." 

"Yes,  go  on;  served  the  brute  right,"  spoke 
up  Mac. 

"I  tried,  of  course,  to  avoid  it,  but  I  was 
powerless.  The  knife  went  straight  through 
my  own  heart,  and  I  fell  dead  at  his  feet. 
That  afternoon  they  threw  my  body  in  the 
pool.  I  have  lain  there  ever  since." 
[162] 


A^a'm  his  fingers  tightened ;  my  breath  u  ; 


BOGGS    BECOMES    DRAMATIC 

The  listeners,  one  and  all,  glared  at  Boggs. 
The  surprise  had  been  so  great  that  for  an 
instant  no  one  found  his  tongue.  Then  the 
fireside  rang  with  shouts  of  laughter. 

Lonnegan  got  his  breath  first. 

"Boggs,"  he  cried,  "you  are  the  most  pict 
uresque  liar  I  know." 

"Yes,  Lonny,  I  guess  that's  so;  but  I  gave 
you  fellows  a  thrill,  and  that's  what  none  of 
you  gave  me  I" 


[163] 


PART    VI 

Wherein  Mac  Dilates  on  the  Human  Side  of 
"His  Worship,  the  Chief  Justice"  and  his 
Fellow  Dogs. 

THE  group  about  the  blazing  logs  was 
enriched  this  afternoon  by  a  new 
member.  Lonnegan  had  brought  his  dog,  a 
big  white  and  yellow  St.  Bernard,  fluffy  as 
a  girl's  muff,  a  huge,  splendid  fellow,  who 
answered  with  great  dignity  and  with  consid 
erable  condescension  to  the  name  of  "Chief," 
an  abbreviation  of  "His  Worship,  the  Chief 
Justice." 

No  other  name  would  have  suited  him. 
Grave,  dignified,  wide-browed,  with  deep, 
thoughtful  eyes;  ponderous  of  form,  slow  in 
his  movements,  keeping  perfectly  still  minutes 
at  a  time,  he  needed  only  a  wig  and  a  pair  of 
[  164] 


CHIEF  AND  HIS  FELLOW  DOGS 

big-bowed  spectacles  to  make  him  the  fitting 
occupant  of  any  bench. 

Mac  put  his  arm  around  Chief's  neck  be 
fore  His  Worship  had  fully  made  up  his 
mind  as  to  where  on  the  Daghestan  rug  he 
would  place  his  august  person. 

The  salutation  over,  and  the  dog's  soft, 
fur-tippet  ears  having  been  duly  rubbed,  and 
his  finely  modelled  cheeks  pressed  close  be 
tween  Mac's  two  warm  hands — their  two 
noses  wTere  but  an  inch  apart — His  Worship 
stretched  himself  out  at  full  length  before  the 
fire,  his  nose  resting  on  his  extended  paws,  his 
kindly,  human  eyes  fixed  on  the  crackling  logs. 

"Lonnegan,"  said  Mac  in  a  thoughtful 
tone,  "do  you  know  I  think  a  good  deal  more 
of  you  since  you  got  this  dog?  I  didn't  know 
you  were  that  human,"  and  Mac  changed  his 
seat  so  that  he  could  rest  his  hand  on  Chief's 
head. 

"Lonnegan  hasn't  anything  human  about 
him,"  broke  in  Boggs,  tugging  at  his  collar 
[165] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

to  give  his  fat  throat  the  more  room;  "not  in 
your  sense,  Mac.  If  you  will  study  the  Great 
Architect  as  closely  as  I  have  done,  you  will 
see  that  his  humanity  is  to  always  keep  one 
point  ahead  of  the  social  game."  Here 
Boggs  got  up  and  moved  his  chair  to  the 
other  side  of  the  fireplace,  so  as  to  be  out  of 
reach  of  Lonnegan's  long  arms. 

"Let  me  explain,  gentlemen,  for  I  don't 
want  to  do  this  distinguished  man  any  injus 
tice.  You  and  I,  Mac,  being  common-sense 
people,  without  any  frills  about  us,  wear  just 
an  ordinary  plain  scarf-pin — a  horseshoe  or  a 
gold  ball,  or  some  such  trifle.  Lonnegan  must 
have  a  scarab,  or  a  coin  two  thousand  years 
old;  same  thing  in  his  dress,  if  you  study  him. 
You  will  note  that  his  collars  are  an  inch 
higher  than  ours,  his  scarfs  twice  as  puffy,  his 
coat-tails  longer,  his  trouserloons  more  baggy 
— not  offensively  baggy,  gentlemen,"  and  he 
waved  his  hand  to  the  coterie;  "perhaps 
more  unique  in  cut,  so  to  put  it.  So  it  is  with 
[166] 


CHIEF    AND    HIS    FELLOW    DOGS 

his  dogs.  This  big  St.  Bernard,  hulking 
along  after  the  Great  Architect  when  he  takes 
his  afternoon  walks  up  and  down  the  Avenue, 
is  quite  on  a  par  with  all  Lonnegan's  other 
frills.  You  and  I  would  affect  an  inconspicu 
ous  canine — a  poodle,  a  terrier,  or  a  bull  pup. 
Not  so  Lonnegan.  He  wants  a  dog  as  big  as 
a  mule.  It's  a  better  advertisement  than  two 
columns  in  a  morning  paper.  'My  dear,'  says 
a  stout  lady,  built  in  two  movements,  to  her 
husband  at  a  theatre"  (Boggs's  imitation  of 
a  society  woman's  drawl  was  now  inimitable), 
"  'I  saw  such  a  magnificent  St.  Bernard  com 
ing  up  the  Avenue.  Belongs  to  Mr.  Lonne 
gan,  the  architect.  He  certainly  is  a  man  of 
very  exquisite  taste.  I  think  it  would  be  a 
good  idea  for  you  to  consult  him  about  the 

plans  for  our '  ' 

Lonnegan  sprang  from  his  seat  and  made 

a    lunge    at    his    tormentor   with    a    look    in 

his  eyes  as  if  he  intended  to  throttle  Boggs 

on  the  spot.     At  the  same  instant  the  great 

[  167] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

dog  drew  in  his  paws  and  rose  to  his  feet,  his 
eyes  fixed  on  his  master's  movements — rose 
as  an  athlete  rises,  using  the  muscles  of  his 
knees  and  ankles  to  pull  his  body  erect.  If 
his  master  was  in  danger  he  was  ready.  Only 
smothered  laughter,  however,  came  from 
both  Boggs  and  Lonnegan. 

"I  take  it  all  back,  Lonny,"  sputtered 
Boggs,  trying  to  release  himself  from  Lonne- 
gan's  grip.  "  The  woman's  husband  wanted 
two  country  houses,  not  one.  Call  off  your 
dog,  I  can't  fight  two  brutes  at  once." 

Pitkin  sprang  to  his  feet,  his  partly  bald 
head  and  forehead  rose-pink  in  the  excitement 
of  the  moment. 

"Don't  call  your  dog  off,  Lonny!  Don't 
move.  Keep  on  choking  Boggs.  Just  look 
at  the  pose  of  that  dog.  Isn't  that  stunning. 
By  Jove,  fellows !  wouldn't  he  be  a  corker  in 
bronze,  life  size.  Just  see  the  line  of  the  back 
and  lift  of  the  head !"  And  the  sculptor,  after 
the  manner  of  his  guild,  held  the  edge  of  his 
[168] 


It's  a  better  advertisement  than  two  columns  in  a  morning  paper 


CHIEF  AND  HIS  FELLOW  DOGS 

hand  against  his  eye  as  a  guide  by  which  to 
measure  the  proportions  of  the  noble  beast. 

Lonnegan  loosened  his  hold,  and  Boggs, 
now  purple  in  the  face  from  loss  of  breath 
and  laughter,  shook  himself  free  and  rear 
ranged  his  collar  with  his  fat  fingers.  The 
attention  of  the  whole  fireside  was  now  cen 
tred  on  the  dog.  His  pose  was  now  less  tense 
and  his  legs  less  rigid,  but  his  paws  had  kept 
their  original  position  on  the  rug.  As  he 
stood,  trying  to  comprehend  the  situation,  he 
had  the  bearing  of  a  charger  overlooking  a 
battle-field. 

"No,  you're  wrong,  Pitkin,"  cried  Marny; 
"Chief  would  be  lumpy  and  inexpressive  in 
bronze.  He's  too  woolly.  You  want  clear- 
cut  anatomy  when  you're  going  to  put  a  dog 
or  any  other  animal  in  bronze.  Color  is  bet 
ter  for  Chief.  I'd  use  him  as  a  foil  to  a 
half-nude,  life-size  scheme  of  brown,  yellow, 
and  white;  old  Chinese  jar  on  her  left,  filled 
with  chrysanthemums,  some  stuffs  in  the  back- 
[  169] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

ground — this  kind  of  thing.  I  can  see  it 
now,"  and  Marny  picked  up  a  bit  of  char 
coal  and  blocked  in  on  a  fresh  canvas  rest 
ing  on  Mac's  easel  the  position  of  the 
figure,  the  men  crowding  about  him  to 
watch  the  result. 

"Won't  do,  old  man,"  cried  Woods,  as 
soon  as  Marny's  rapid  outline  became  clear. 
"Out  of  scale;  all  dog  and  no  girl.  I'd  have 
him  stretched  out  as  he  is  now"  (Chief  had  re 
gained  his  position),  "with  a  fellow  in  a  chair 
reading — lamplight  on  book  for  high  light, 
dog  in  half  shadow." 

"You're  quite  right,  Woods,"  said  Mac, 
who  was  still  caressing  Chief's  silky  ears. 
"Marny's  missed  it  this  time;  girl  scheme 
won't  do.  This  is  a  gentleman's  dog,  and  he 
has  always  moved  among  his  kind." 

"Careful,  Mac;  careful,"  remarked  Boggs 
in  a  reproving  tone.  '  You  said  'has  moved.' 
You  don't  mean  to  reflect  on  his  present 
owner,  do  you?" 


CHIEF    AND    HIS    FELLOW    DOGS 

Mac  waved  Boggs  away  with  the  same 
gesture  with  which  he  would  have  brushed 
off  a  fly,  and  continued: 

"When  I  say  that  he  has  always  lived 
among  gentlemen,  I  state  the  exact  fact.  You 
can  see  that  in  his  manners  and  in  the  way 
in  which  he  retains  not  only  his  self-respect, 
but  his  courage  and  loyalty.  You  noticed, 
did  you  not,  that  it  took  him  but  an  instant 
to  get  on  his  feet  when  Lonnegan  seized 
Boggs?  You  will  also  agree  with  me  that 
no  one  has  entered  this  room  this  winter  more 
gracefully,  or  with  more  ease  and  composure, 
nor  one  who  has  known  better  what  to  do 
with  his  arms  and  legs.  And  as  for  his  well- 
bred  reticence,  he  has  yet  to  open  his  mouth — 
certainly  a  great  rebuke  to  Boggs,  if  he  did 
but  know  it,"  and  he  nodded  in  the  direction 
of  the  Chronic  Interrupter.  "Great  study, 
these  dogs.  Chief  has  had  a  gentleman  for 
a  master,  I  tell  you,  and  has  lived  in  a  gen 
tleman's  house,  accustomed  all  his  life  to 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

oriental  rugs,  wood  fires,  four-in-hands,  two- 
wheeled  carts,  golden-haired  children  in  black 
velvet  suits,  servants  in  livery — regular  thor 
oughbred.  That  is,  bred  thorough,  by  some 
body  who  never  insulted  him,  who  never 
misunderstood  him,  and  who  never  mortified 
him.  Offending  a  dog  is  as  bad  as  offending 
a  child,  and  ten  times  worse  than  offending  a 
woman.  A  dozen  men  would  spring  to  a 
woman's  assistance;  no  one  ever  interferes  in 
a  quarrel  between  a  dog  and  his  master. 
When  they  do  they  generally  take  the  mas 
ter's  side." 

Mac  reached  over,  tapped  the  bowl  of  his 
pipe  against  the  brick  of  the  fireplace,  emp 
tied  it  of  its  ashes,  and  laying  it  on  the  man 
tel  resumed  his  seat. 

"It's  pathetic  to  me,"  he  continued,  "to 
see  how  hard  some  dogs  try  to  understand 
their  masters.  All  they  can  do  is  to  take  their 
cue  from  the  men  who  own  them.  It  isn't 
astonishing,  really,  that  they  should  some- 


CHIEF    AND    HIS    FELLOW    DOGS 

times  copy  them.  It  only  takes  a  few  months 
for  a  butcher  to  make  his  dog  as  bloody 
and  as  brutal  as  the  toughest  hand  in  his 
shop." 

"What  a  responsibility,"  sighed  Boggs, 
turning  toward  Lonnegan.  "You  won't  cor 
rupt  His  Worship  with  any  of  your  Murray 
Hill  swaggerdoms,  will  you,  Lonny?" 

Lonnegan  closed  one  eye  at  Boggs  and 
wagged  his  chin  in  denial.  Mac  went  on : 

"Dogs  can  just  as  well  be  educated  up  as 
educated  down.  There  is  no  question  of  their 
ability  to  learn — not  the  slightest.  I  am  not 
speaking  of  the  things  they  are  expected  to 
know — hunting,  rat  catching,  and  so  on;  I 
mean  the  things  they  are  not  expected  to 
know.  If  you'd  like  to  hear  how  they  can 
understand  each  other,  get  the  Colonel  to  tell 
you  about  those  two  dogs  he  saw  in  Constan 
tinople  some  two  years  ago,"  and  he  turned 
to  me. 

"It  wasn't  in  Constantinople,  Mac,"  I  an- 

[  173] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

swered,  "it  was  in  Stamboul,  on  the  Plaza 
of  the  Hippodrome." 

"Near  where  I  was  murdered,  and  where 
I  still  lie  buried?"  Boggs  asked  gravely,  with 
a  sly  wink  at  Marny. 

"Yes,  within  a  stone's  throw  of  your  pres 
ent  tomb,  old  man,  up  near  the  Obelisk. 
That  plaza  is  the  home  of  four  or  five  packs 
of  street  curs,  who  divide  up  the  territory 
among  themselves,  and  no  dog  dares  cross  the 
imaginary  line  without  getting  into  trouble. 
Every  day  or  so  there  is  a  pitched  battle 
directed  by  their  leaders — always  the  biggest 
dogs  in  the  pack.  What  Mac  refers  to  oc 
curred  some  years  ago,  when,  looking  over 
my  easel  one  morning,  I  saw  a  lame  dog 
skulking  along  by  the  side  of  a  low  wall  that 
forms  the  boundary  of  one  side  of  the  plaza. 
He  was  on  three  legs,  the  other  held  up  in 
the  air.  A  big  shaggy  brute,  the  leader  of 
another  pack,  made  straight  for  him,  fol 
lowed  by  three  others.  The  cripple  saw  them 
[174] 


CHIEF    AND    HIS    FELLOW    DOGS 

coming,  and  at  once  lay  down  on  his  back, 
his  injured  paw  thrust  up.  The  big  dog 
stood  over  him  and  heard  what  he  had  to 
say.  I  was  not  ten  feet  from  them,  and  I 
understood  every  word. 

"  'I  am  lame,  gentlemen,  as  you  see,'  he 
pleaded,  'and  I  am  on  my  way  home.  I  am  in 
too  much  pain  to  walk  around  the  side  of  the 
plaza  where  I  belong,  and  I  therefore  humbly 
beg  your  permission  to  cross  this  small  part 
of  your  territory.' 

"The  big  leader  listened,  snarled  at  his 
companions  who  were  standing  by  ready  to 
help  tear  the  intruder  to  pieces,  sent  them 
back  to  their  quarters  with  a  commanding 
toss  of  his  head,  and  walked  by  the  side  of 
the  cripple  until  he  had  cleared  the  corner; 
then  he  slowly  returned  to  his  pack.  There 
was  no  question  about  it;  if  the  cripple  had 
spoken  English  I  could  not  have  understood 
him  better." 

"I  can  beat  that  yarn,"  chimed  in  Woods, 

[175] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

"so  far  as  sympathy  is  concerned.  I  was  in 
an  omnibus  once  going  up  the  Boulevard  des 
Italiennes  when  a  man  on  the  seat  opposite 
me  whistled  out  of  the  end  window — his  two 
dogs  were  following  behind  the  'bus.  One 
was  a  white  bull  terrier,  the  other  a  French 
poodle,  black  as  tar.  Whenever  anything 
got  in  the  way — and  it  was  pretty  crowded 
along  there — the  dogs  fell  behind.  When 
they  appeared  again  the  owner  would  whistle 
to  let  them  know  where  he  was.  All  of  a 
sudden  I  heard  a  yell.  The  poodle  had  been 
run  over.  I  could  see  him  lying  flat  on  the 
asphalt,  kicking.  The  man  stopped  the  omni 
bus  and  sprang  out,  and  a  crowd  gathered. 
In  that  short  space  of  time  the  terrier  had 
fastened  his  teeth  in  the  poodle's  collar,  had 
dragged  him  clear  of  the  traffic  to  the  side 
walk,  and  was  bending  over  him  licking  the 
hurt.  Four  or  five  people  got  out  of  the 
stage,  I  among  them,  and  a  cheer  went  up 
for  the  owner  when  he  picked  up  the  injured 
[176] 


CHIEF    AND    HIS    FELLOW    DOGS 

dog  in  his  arms  and  took  him  clear  of  the 
crowd,  the  terrier  following  behind,  as  anx 
ious  as  a  mother  over  her  child.  I  have  be 
lieved  in  the  sympathy  of  dogs  for  each  other 
ever  since." 

"My  turn  now,"  said  Boggs.  "My  uncle's 
got  a  poodle,  answers  to  the  name  of  Mirza. 
Got  more  common  sense  than  anything  that 
walks  on  four  legs.  They  keep  a  bowl  in 
one  corner  of  the  dining-room,  which  is  always 
filled  with  water  so  the  dog  can  get  a  drink 
when  she  wants  it.  My  uncle  says  that's  one 
thing  half  the  people  who  own  dogs  never 
think  of — dogs  not  being  able  to  turn  faucets. 
Well,  they  shifted  servants  one  day  and  for 
got  to  tell  the  new  one  about  the  bowl. 
Mirza  did  her  best  to  make  her  understand 
— pulled  her  dress,  got  up  on  her  hind  legs 
and  sniffed  around  the  empty  tea-cups.  No 
use.  Then  an  idea  struck  the  dog.  She  made 
a  spring  for  the  empty  bowl  and  rolled  it 
over  with  her  four  paws  from  the  dining- 

[  177] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

room  into  the  butler's  pantry.  By  that  time 
the  wooden-headed  idiot  understood,  and 
Mirza  got  her  drink." 

During  the  discussion  Mac  had  sat  with 
the  great  head  of  the  St.  Bernard  resting  on 
his  knee.  It  was  evident  that  His  Worship 
had  found  an  acquaintance  whom  he  could 
trust,  one  whom  he  considered  his  equal.  For 
some  minutes  the  painter  looked  into  the 
dog's  face,  his  hands  smoothing  the  dog's 
ears,  the  St.  Bernard's  eyes  growing  sleepy 
under  the  caress.  Then  Mac  said  in  a  half- 
audible  tone,  speaking  to  the  dog,  not  to  us: 

"You've  got  a  great  head,  old  fellow — full 
of  sense.  All  your  bumps  are  in  the  right 
place.  You  know  a  lot  of  things  that  are  too 
much  for  us  humans.  I  wish  you'd  tell  me 
one  thing.  You  know  what  we  all  think  of 
you,  but  what  do  you  think  of  us — of  your 
master  Lonnegan,  of  this  crowd,  this  fire 
place?  Speak  out,  old  man;  I'd  like  to 
know." 


CHIEF    AND    HIS    FELLOW    DOGS 

Boggs  shifted  his  fat  body  in  his  chair, 
jerked  his  head  over  his  shoulder,  and  wink 
ing  meaningly  at  Lonnegan,  said  in  a  low 
voice : 

"Mac  is  going  to  give  us  one  of  his  remi- 
nuisances;  I  know  the  sign." 

''Make  the  dog  begin  on  Boggs,  Mac," 
cried  Woods. 

"No,  Chief's  too  much  of  a  gentleman. 
He  knows  all  about  Boggs,  but  he's  too  polite 
to  tell,"  replied  Mae. 

"Get  him  to  whisper  it  then  in  your  off 
ear,"  suggested  Boggs.  "He'll  surprise  you 
with  his  estimate  of  one  of  nature's  noble 
men,"  and  he  thrust  his  thumbs  in  the  arm- 
holes  of  his  waistcoat. 

"Xo,  keep  it  to  yourself,  Chief,"  remarked 
Mac.  "But  I'm  not  joking,  I'm  in  dead  ear 
nest.  Anybody  can  find  out  what  a  man 
thinks  of  a  dog;  but  what  does  a  dog  think 
of  a  man,  especially  some  of  those  two-legged 
brutes  who  by  right  of  dollars  claim  to  own 
[  179] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

them?  I  took  the  measure  of  a  man  once 
who " 

Boggs  sprang  from  his  seat  and  struck  one 
of  his  ring-master  attitudes. 

"What  did  I  tell  you,  gentlemen?  Just 
as  I  expected,  the  semi-nuisance  has  arrived. 
Give  him  room !  The  great  landscape  painter 
is  about  to  explode  with  another  tale  of  his 
youth.  You  took  the  measure  of  a  man  once, 
I  think  you  said,  Mac;  was  it  for  a  suit  of 
clothes  or  a  coffin?  Nc^  don't  answer;  keep 
right  on." 

"Yes,  I  did  take  his  measure,"  said  Mac, 
in  a  low,  earnest  tone,  ignoring  Boggs's  aside ; 
"and  I've  never  taken  any  stock  in  him  since. 
I  don't  think  any  of  you  know  him,  and  it's 
just  as  well  that  you  don't.  I  may  be  a  little 
Quixotic  about  these  things — guess  I  am — but 
I'm  going  to  stay  so.  I  met  this  Quarterman 
— that's  more  than  he  deserves;  he's  nearer 
one-eighth  of  a  man  than  a  quarter — up  at  the 
club-house  on  Salt  Beach.  I  was  a  guest; 
[180] 


CHIEF  AND  HIS  FELLOW  DOGS 

he  was  a  member.  Big,  heavily  built  young 
fellow;  weighed  about  two  hundred  pounds; 
rather  good-looking;  wore  the  best  of  Eng 
lish  shooting  togs;  carried  an  English  gun 
and  carted  around  a  lot  of  English  leather 
cases,  bound  in  brass,  with  his  name  plate  on 
them.  A  regular  out-and-out  sport  of  the 
better  type,  I  thought,  when  I  first  saw  him. 
He  had  with  him  one  of  the  most  beautiful 
reddish-brown  setters  I  ever  laid  my  eyes  on 
— what  you'd  get  with  burnt  sienna  and 
madder — with  a  coat  as  fine  and  silky  as  a 
camel's  hair  brush.  One  of  those  clean- 
mouthed,  clean-toothed,  agate-eyed,  sweet- 
breathed  dogs  that  every  girl  loves  at  first 
sight,  and  can  no  more  help  putting  her  hands 
on  than  she  can  help  coddling  a  roly-poly 
kitten  just  out  of  a  basket.  He  had  the  same 
well-bred  manners  that  Chief  has,  the  same 
grace  of  movement,  same  repose,  only  more 
gentle  and  more  confiding.  The  only  thing 
that  struck  me  as  peculiar  about  him  was  the 
[181] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

way  he  watched  his  master;  he  seemed  to  love 
him  and  yet  to  be  afraid  of  him;  always  ready 
to  bound  out  of  his  way  and  yet  equally  ready 
to  come  when  he  was  called — a  manner  which 
he  never  showed  to  anyone  who  tried  to  make 
friends  with  him. 

"I  saw  Quarterman  that  morning  when 
he  started  out  alone  quail  shooting,  the  setter 
bounding  before  him,  running  up  and  spring 
ing  at  him,  and  off  again — doing  all  the 
things  a  human  dog  does  to  tell  a  man  how 
happy  he  is  to  go  along,  and  what  a  lot  of 
fun  the  two  are  going  to  have  together.  I 
watched  them  until  they  got  clear  of  the 
marshes  and  disappeared  in  the  woods  on  the 
way  to  the  open  country  beyond.  All  that 
day  the  picture  of  the  well-equipped,  alert 
young  fellow  and  the  spring  of  the  joyous  set 
ter  kept  coming  to  my  mind.  I  don't  believe 
in  killing  things,  as  you  know  (so  I  don't 
shoot),  but  I  thought  if  I  did  I'd  just  like 
to  have  a  dog  like  that  one  to  show  me  how. 
[182] 


CHIEF    AND    HIS    FELLOW    DOGS 

"About  six  o'clock  that  night  the  two  re 
turned.  I  was  sitting  by  the  wood  fire — a 
good  deal  bigger  than  this  one,  the  logs 
nearly  six  feet  long — when  the  outer  door 
was  swung  back  and  Quarterman  came  in, 
his  boots  covered  with  mud,  his  bird-bag  over 
his  shoulder.  The  setter  followed  close  at 
his  heels,  his  beautiful  brown  coat  covered 
with  burrs  and  dirt.  Both  man  and  dog  had 
had  a  hard  day's  work  and  a  poor  one,  judg 
ing  from  the  bird-bag  which  hung  almost  flat 
against  Quarterman's  shoulder. 

"Everybody  pushed  back  his  chair  to  make 
room  for  the  tired-out  sportsman. 

"  'What  luck?'  cried  out  half-a-dozen  men 
at  once. 

"Quarterman,  without  answering,  stopped 
in  the  middle  of  the  room  some  distance  from 
the  fire,  laid  his  gun  on  the  table,  reached 
around  for  his  bird-bag,  thrust  in  his  hand, 
drew  out  a  small  quail  — all  he  had  shot — 
and  threw  it  with  all  his  might  against  the 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

wall  of  the  fireplace,  where  it  dropped  into 
the  ashes — threw  it  as  a  boy  would  throw  a 
brick  against  a  fence.  Then  with  a  vicious 
hind  thrust  of  his  boot  he  kicked  the  setter 
in  the  face.  The  dog  gave  a  cry  of  pain  and 
crawled  under  the  table  and  out  of  the  room. 
''What  luck!'  growled  Quarterman. 
'Footed  it  fifteen  miles  clear  to  Pottsburg,  and 
that  damned  dog  scared  up  every  bird  before 
I  could  get  a  shot  at  it!'  and  without  another 
word  he  mounted  the  stairs  to  his  room. 

"His  opinion  of  the  dog  was  now  common 
property.  If  any  man  who  had  heard  it  dis 
agreed  with  him,  he  kept  his  opinion  to  him 
self.  But  what  I  wanted  to  know  was 
what  the  setter  thought  of  Quarterman? 
He  had  followed  him  all  day  through 
swamps  and  briars;  had  run,  jumped,  crept 
on  his  belly,  sniffed,  scented,  and  nosed  into 
every  tuft  of  grass  and  brush-heap  where  a 
quail  could  hide  itself;  had  walked  miles  to 
the  man's  one,  leaped  fences,  scoured  hills, 
[184] 


CHIEF    AND    HIS    FELLOW    DOGS 

raced  down  country  roads  and  over  ditches, 
had  pointed  and  flushed  a  dozen  birds  the 
brute  couldn't  hit,  and  after  doing  his  level 
best  had  come  back  to  the  club-house  expect 
ing  to  get  a  warm  corner  and  a  hot  supper — 
his  right  as  well  as  Quarterman's — and  in 
stead  got  a  kick  in  the  face. 

"I  ask  you  now,  what  did  the  dog  think 
of  him?  I  was  so  mad  I  had  to  go  outside 
and  let  off  steam  myself.  I  was  half  Quar 
terman's  weight  and  ten  years  his  senior,  but 
if  he  had  stayed  five  minutes  longer  by  that 
fire  I  am  quite  sure  I  should  have  told  him 
what  I  thought  of  him." 

"I  bet  you  told  the  dog,  didn't  you,  Mac?" 
remarked  Lonnegan. 

"Yes,  I  did.  Gave  him  a  hug,  and  hunted 
up  the  cook  and  saw  he  was  fed.  He  tried 
to  tell  me  all  about  it,  putting  out  his  paw 
and  drawing  it  in  again,  looking  up  into  my 
face  with  his  big  eyes — tears  in  'em,  I  tell 
you — real  tears !  Not  so  much  from  the  hurt 
[185] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

as  from  the  mortification.  I  understood  then 
his  shrinking  away  from  his  master.  It 
hadn't  been  the  first  time  he  had  been  humili 
ated  and  hurt.  Dirty  brute!  If  I  knew 
where  he  was  I  think  I'd  go  and  thrash  him 
now." 

The  coterie  broke  out  into  a  laugh  over 
Mac's  indignation,  but  a  laugh  in  which  there 
was  more  love  than  ridicule. 

"Yes,  I  would;  I  feel  like  it  this  minute. 
But  I  tell  you  the  setter  got  his  revenge;  a 
revenge  that  showed  his  blood  and  breeding; 
the  revenge  of  a  gentleman. 

"Back  of  the  club-house  was  a  swampy  place 
where  some  cranberry  raisers  had  dug  holes 
and  squares  trying  to  get  something  to  grow, 
and  back  of  this  was  another  swamp  perhaps 
a  mile  or  two  wide.  Ugly  place — full  of 
suck-holes,  twisted  briars,  and  vines — where 
they  told  Quarterman  he  could  get  some 
woodcock  or  snipe  or  whatever  you  do  get  in 
a  marsh.  The  setter  rose  to  his  feet  to  ac- 
[186] 


CHIEF    AND    HIS    FELLOW    DOGS 

company  him  (this  was  two  days  later)  but 
was  met  with,  'Go  back,  damn  you!'  Fol 
lowed  by  an  aside,  'What  that  fool  dog  wants 
is  a  dose  of  buckshot,  and  he'll  get  it  if  he 
ain't  careful.' 

"That  day  I  had  been  off  sketching  and 
did  not  get  back  until  nearly  dark.  There 
were  only  two  other  men  left  besides  myself 
and  Quarterman,  most  of  the  others  having 
gone  to  town.  When  dinner  was  served  the 
steward  went  upstairs  expecting  to  find  Quar 
terman  asleep  on  his  bed.  No  Quarterman ! 
Then  he  began  to  inquire  around.  He  had 
not  been  back  to  luncheon,  and  no  one  had 
seen  him  since  he  went  off  in  the  morning 
heading  for  the  cranberry  swamp.  The  set 
ter  was  still  outside  on  the  porch,  where  he 
had  lain  all  day,  foot-sore  and  worn  out,  the 
men  said,  with  his  hunt  the  day  before.  I 
made  no  reply  to  this,  but  I  thought  differ 
ently.  Eight  o'clock  came,  then  nine,  and 
still  no  sign  of  Quarterman.  One  of  the  club 
[187] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

servants  suggested  that  something  must  have 
happened  to  him.  'Never  Mr.  Quarterman's 
way,'  he  added,  'to  be  out  after  sundown,  in 
all  the  five  years  he  had  been  a  member  of 
the  club.  He  certainly  would  not  go  to  the 
city  in  his  shooting  clothes,  and  he  hadn't 
changed  them,  for  the  suit  he  had  worn  down 
from  town  still  hung  in  his  closet.'  At  ten 
o'clock  we  got  uneasy  and  started  out  to  look 
for  him,  a  party  of  three,  the  two  servants 
carrying  stable  lanterns.  The  setter  again 
rose  to  his  feet,  wondering  what  was  up,  and 
was  again  rebuffed,  this  time  by  the  steward. 
"We  soon  found  that  fooling  around  a 
swamp  of  a  dark  night,  with  your  eyes 
blinded  by  a  lantern,  was  no  joke.  Every 
other  step  we  took  we  fell  into  holes  or  got 
tripped  up  by  briars.  We  stumbled  on,  skirt 
ing  by  the  edge  of  the  cranberry  patch,  holler 
ing  as  loud  as  we  could;  stopping  to  listen; 
then  going  on  again.  We  tried  the  other  big 
swamp,  but  that  was  impossible  in  the  dark. 
[188] 


CHIEF  AND  HIS  FELLOW  DOGS 

Then  an  idea  popped  into  my  head.  I  gave 
the  lantern  I  was  carrying  to  one  of  the  men, 
hollered  to  the  others  to  stay  where  they  were 
till  I  got  back,  cleared  the  cranberry  patch, 
struck  out  for  the  club-house  on  a  run,  sprang 
upstairs,  grabbed  Quarterman's  coat  hanging 
in  the  closet,  ran  downstairs  again,  and 
shoved  it  under  the  nose  of  the  setter.  Then 
I  told  him  all  about  it,  just  as  I'd  tell  you. 
Quarterman  was  lost — he  was  in  the  swamp, 
perhaps;  where,  we  didn't  know — and  he  was 
the  only  one  who  could  find  him.  Would  he 
go?  Go!  You  just  ought  to  have  seen  him ! 
He  threw  his  nose  up  in  the  air,  sniffed 
around  as  though  he  were  looking  for  gnats 
to  bite;  made  a  spring  from  the  porch  and 
began  circling  the  lawn,  his  nose  to  the 
ground  and  sand;  then  he  made  a  bound  over 
the  fence  and  disappeared  in  the  night. 

"I   hollered   for   the  others   and   we   kept 
after  the  setter  as  best  we  could.     Every  now 
and  then  he  would  give  a  short  bark — some- 
[189] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

times  far  away,  sometimes  nearer.  All  we 
could  do  was  to  skirt  along  the  edge  of  the 
cranberry  patch  swinging  the  lanterns  and 
hollering,  'Quarterman  !  Quarterman  !'  until 
our  throats  gave  out. 

"Then  I  heard  a  quick,  sharp  bark,  fol 
lowed  by  a  series  of  short  yelps,  not  fifty 
yards  away.  Next  there  came  a  faint  halloo, 
a  man's  voice.  We  pushed  on,  and  there, 
about  ten  yards  from  hard  ground,  we  found 
Quarterman  stretched  out,  the  setter  squat 
ting  beside  him.  He  had  slipped  into  a  hole 
some  hours  before,  had  broken  his  ankle,  and 
had  made  up  his  mind  to  wait  until  daylight, 
the  pain,  every  time  he  moved,  almost  mak 
ing  him  faint.  He  was  soaked  to  the  skin 
and  shivering  with  cold.  We  helped  him  up 
on  one  foot,  carried  him  to  dry  land,  and 
finally  got  him  home;  the  dog  following  at 
a  respectful  distance. 

"After  we  had  put  Quarterman  to  bed  and 
had  sent  a  man  off  on  horseback  to  Pottsburg 
[  190] 


CHIEF  AND  HIS  FELLOW  DOGS 

for  a  doctor,  I  looked  up  the  setter.  He  was 
in  his  old  place  on  the  porch,  stretched  out 
under  one  of  the  wooden  benches,  his  nose 
resting  on  his  paws — just  as  Chief  lies  here 
now — thinking  the  whole  situation  over.  He 
raised  his  head  for  an  instant,  licked  my  hand 
and  looked  up  inquiringly  into  my  face  as  if 
expecting  some  further  service  might  be  re 
quired  of  him;  then  he  dropped  his  head 
again  and  kept  on  thinking.  Nobody  had 
bothered  himself  about  him;  they  hadn't  even 
thanked  him  in  their  hearts.  Nothing  to 
thank  him  for.  Childish  to  think  of  it!  All 
the  setter  had  done  was  just  being  plain  dog. 
Hunting  up  things  was  what  he  was  born  for. 
"Next  morning  the  dog  turned  up  missing. 
Quarterman  raised  himself  up  on  his  elbow 
when  he  heard  the  news  and  said  he  must  be 
found  at  any  cost;  he  was  worth  five  hundred 
dollars.  The  men  started  out,  of  course; 
searched  the  stables,  boat-houses,  swamp,  and 
fields  clear  down  to  the  water's  edge;  whistled 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

and  called;  did  all  the  things  you  do  when  a 
dog  is  lost — but  no  setter.  Everybody  won 
dered  why  he  ran  away.  Some  said  one 
thing,  some  another.  I  knew  why.  He  had 
gone  off  in  search  of  a  gentleman." 

"Did  Quarterman  get  well?"  ventured 
Lonnegan. 

"I  don't  know  and  I  don't  care.  I  left 
the  next  morning." 

"Did  Quarterman  get  his  dog  back?" 
asked  Boggs. 

"Not  while  I  was  there.  I  could  have  told 
him  where  to  look  for  him,  but  I  didn't.  I 
saw  him  on  a  porch  with  some  children  about 
a  week  after  that,  when  I  was  driving  through 
a  neighboring  village — but  I  didn't  send 
word  to  Quarterman.  I  had  too  much  re 
spect  for  the  dog. 

"Come  here,  old  fellow,"  and  Mac  took 
the  great  head  of  the  St.  Bernard  between  his 
warm  hands  and  the  two  snuggled  their 
cheeks  together. 

[  192] 


PART   VII 

Containing  Mr.  Alexander  MacWhirter's 
Views  on  Lord  Ponsonby,  Major  Yancey, 
and  their  Kind. 

WHEN  I  entered  No.  3  to-day  Mac 
was  struggling  with  a  small  upright 
piano.  He  and  Marny  had  rolled  it  out  of 
Wharton's  room  at  the  end  of  the  corridor, 
and  the  two  had  guided  it  between  the  open 
door  and  the  screen  of  No.  3  and  were  now 
whirling  it  into  the  corner  occupied  by  Mac's 
easel. 

This  done,  the  two  began  to  make  ready 
for  the  evening's  entertainment.  The  big 
divan  where  Mac  slept  was  dragged  from 
its  shelter,  covered  with  a  rug,  and  placed 
against  the  wall  facing  the  fireplace;  the 
table  was  stripped  of  its  junk  (there  is  no 
other  word  for  the  miscellaneous  collec- 

[  193] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

tion  of  sketches,  books,  curios,  matches, 
brushes,  tubes  of  color,  half-used  bottles  of 
siccative  and  the  like,  which  always  litters 
the  table's  surface),  wiped  clean,  and  placed 
at  right  angles  with  the  divan;  all  the  un 
comfortable  chairs  moved  out  of  sight;  a 
stool  backed  up  under  the  window  to  hold 
a  keg  of  ice-cool  beer,  to  be  brought  in  later 
and  wreathed  with  green;  new  and  old  mugs 
— those  of  the  regular  members,  and  brand 
new  ones  for  the  invited  guests — lined  up  on 
the  cleared  table:  all  these  shiftings,  strip- 
pings,  and  refittings  being  especially  designed 
for  the  comfort  of  a  chosen  few,  who  on  these 
rare  nights  (only  once  a  year)  were  admitted 
into  the  charmed  half-circle  that  curved  about 
the  wood  fire  in  No.  3. 

These  complete,  Mac  turned  his  attention 
to  the  lesser  details:  the  stacking  up  of  a  pile 
of  wood  so  that  the  rattling  old  fire  would 
have  logs  enough  with  which  to  warm  the 
latest  guests,  new  or  old,  no  matter  how  late 
[  194] 


MR.    MACWHIRTER'S    VIEWS 

they  stayed;  the  hearth  swept — all  its  "dear 
gray  hair  combed  back  from  its  rosy  face 
with  a  broom"  Mac  used  to  call  this  process; 
the  Chinese  screen  drawn  the  closer  to  keep 
out  the  wandering  drafts;  candles  lighted  in 
the  old  sconces,  ancient  candlesticks,  and 
grimy  Dutch  lanterns;  and  last — and  this  he 
attended  to  himself — every  vestige  of  the 
work  of  his  own  brush  tucked  out  of  sight  so 
that  not  even  Boggs  could  find  one.  There 
were  strangers  coming  to-night — one  a 
partner  in  a  big  banking  house  and  a  sus 
pected  buyer — and  no  canvas  of  his  must 
be  visible. 

With  the  arrival  of  the  keg  of  "special 
brew,"  carried  on  the  shoulders  of  a  big 
German  from  the  street  to  the  fifth  floor 
without  a  pause,  where  it  was  propped  up  on 
the  wooden  stool  and  steadied  by  a  stick  of 
kindling  wood,  Mac  opened  the  window  of 
his  studio  and  took  from  its  sill  a  paper  box 
filled  with  smilax — his  own  touch  in  remem- 
[195] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

brance  of  his  Munich  days.  This  he  wound 
around  the  body  of  the  cool  keg  with  the  en 
thusiasm  of  a  virgin  of  old  twisting  garlands 
about  the  neck  of  a  sacred  bull.  Loyalty  to 
just  such  ideals  is  part  of  Mac's  religion. 

Pitkin  arrived  first,  bringing  with  him  the 
much-dreaded  banker  from  whom  Mac  had 
hidden  his  pictures.  The  sculptor  was  at  work 
on  a  bust  of  the  rich  man's  wife,  and  the  pay 
master  had  begged  so  hard  to  be  admitted 
into  the  charmed  circle  that  Pitkin  had  sin 
gled  him  out  as  his  guest.  Not  that  there 
was  any  valid  reason  why  he  or  anyone  else 
should  be  debarred  its  comforts,  except  upon 
the  ground  of  uncongeniality.  The  habitues 
of  this  particular  half-circle  never  tolerated 
(to  quote  Mac)  the  mixing  of  water  and  oil 
on  their  palettes. 

Then  came  Boggs  with  an  Irish  journalist 
by  the  name  of  Murphy,  a  stockily  built, 
round-headed  man  in  gold  spectacles;  fol 
lowed  by  Woods,  who  brought  a  friend  of 
[196] 


MR.    MACWHIRTER'S    VIEWS 

his,  an  inventor;  Marny  with  another  friend 
from  the  club,  and  last  of  all  Lonnegan,  with 
his  big  dog  Chief. 

Each  guest  had  been  welcomed  by  Mac  in 
his  hearty  way  and  duly  presented  to  the 
stranger,  whosoever  he  might  be,  and  each 
man  had  responded  according  to  his  type  and 
personality.  The  banker  had  returned  Mac's 
grasp  with  a  deference  never  extended  by 
him,  so  Pitkin  thought,  to  any  financial  mag 
nate;  the  inventor  had  at  once  launched  out 
into  a  description  of  his  more  recent  experi 
ments;  the  club  man  had  said  the  proper 
thing,  and  immediately  thereafter  had  busied 
himself  making  a  mental  inventory  of  the 
comforts  the  room  afforded,  scrutinizing  the 
etchings,  the  stuffs  on  the  walls,  the  old  brass 
— dropping  finally  into  one  of  the  easy  chairs 
by  the  fire  with  the  same  complacency  with 
which  he  would  have  dropped  into  his  own 
at  the  club;  and  Woods,  Marny,  Pitkin,  Lon 
negan,  and  the  others  had  all  responded  in 

[  197] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

a  way  to  make  each  guest  feel  at  home — 
guests  and  hosts  conducting  themselves  after 
the  manner  of  humans. 

Chief's  entrance  and  greeting  were  along 
lines  peculiarly  his  own.  He  walked  in  with 
head  erect,  his  big  eyes  sweeping  the  room, 
stood  for  an  instant  surveying  the  field,  and 
then  walked  straight  to  Mac,  where  he  re 
turned  his  host's  welcoming  hug  by  snuggling 
his  big  head  between  his  knees.  His  "man 
ners"  made  to  his  host,  he  visited  each  guest 
in  turn — those  he  knew — waited  an  instant  to 
be  petted  and  talked  to,  and  then  stretched 
himself  out  at  full  length  on  the  rug  before 
the  fire,  where  he  lay  without  moving  during 
the  entire  evening. 

"Watch  him,  Lonny!"  burst  out  Mac — he 
had  followed  Chief's  every  movement  since 
the  dog  entered  the  room — "see  the  way  he 
lies  down.  Got  royal  blood  in  him,  old  man; 
goes  back  to  the  flood;  Noah  saw  one  of  his 
ancestors  swimming  round  and  saved  him 
[198] 


MR.    MACWHIRTER'S    VIEWS 

first.  I  feel  as  if  I  were  entertaining  a  Prime 
Minister." 

The  atmosphere  of  the  place  began  to  tell 
on  the  new  company.  The  banker  found 
himself  talking  to  Boggs  in  whispers,  his  re 
spect  for  his  host  increasing  every  moment. 
That  men  could  plod  on  as  Mac  was  doing, 
hampered  by  a  poverty  which  was  only  too 
evident  in  his  surroundings,  and  still  maintain 
a  certain  contempt  for  riches,  hidden  though 
it  might  be  under  a  courtesy  which  found  ex 
pression  in  a  big  broad  fellowship,  was  a 
revelation  to  him.  A  sort  of  reverence  for 
the  man  took  possession  of  him,  as  if  he  had 
fallen  upon  a  supposed  tramp  whom  he  had 
afterward  discovered  to  be  either  a  prophet 
or  some  world-known  philosopher. 

Murphy,  the  journalist,  being  poor  him 
self,  had  other  views  of  life.  To  him  Mac- 
Whirter  and  his  intimates  were  men  after  his 
own  heart.  He  and  they  had  followed  the 
same  road,  although  with  different  aims. 
[  199  1 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3    . 

They  understood  each  other.  As  to  the 
rich  banker,  if  the  journalist  considered 
him  at  all  it  was  purely  in  the  line  of  his  own 
calling — just  so  much  material  for  future 
columns  of  type,  whenever  he  could  utilize 
either  his  personality  or  his  views. 

"No,  I  don't  think  American  Bohemian 
life — which  is  a  misnomer,"  said  Murphy  in 
answer  to  one  of  the  banker's  inquiries, 
"because  no  such  thing  exists — is  any  dif 
ferent  from  any  other  such  life  the  world 
over.  We  are  a  class  to  ourselves,  but  we  in 
no  way  differ  from  our  brothers  of  the  brush 
and  quill  abroad.  I,  of  course,  am  only 
allowed  to  creep  around  the  outside  edges, 
but  even  that  small  privilege  affords  me  more 
pleasure  than  any  other  I  possess.  Murray 
Hill  and  Belgravia  may  be  necessary  to  our 
civilization,  but  neither  one  nor  the  other  in 
terests  the  man  who  has  any  purpose  in  life. 
Take,  for  instance,  these  men  here,"  and  he 
pointed  to  Mac,  who  was  for  the  moment 
[  200  ] 


MR.     MACWHIRTER'S    VIEWS 

driving  a  wooden  spigot  into  the  keg  of 
beer.  "Look  at  MacWhirter.  He  doesn't 
want  any  liveried  servant  to  wait  on  him;  he 
would  serve  that  beer  himself  if  there  was  a 
line  of  flunkies  extending  from  the  door  to 
the  sidewalk." 

"That's  what  I  like  him  for,"  cried  the 
banker,  jumping  up,  "and  I'm  going  to  help 
him,"  and  he  carried  some  of  the  mugs  over 
to  Mac's  side.  "Here,  fill  these,  Mr.  Mac 
Whirter." 

"Bully  for  him!"  muttered  Pitkin,  turning 
to  me  as  if  for  confirmation.  "Didn't  know 
it  was  in  him." 

"This  mug's  for  you,  Mr.  MacWhirter," 
cried  out  the  banker,  with  an  enthusiasm  he 
had  not  shown  since  his  college  days,  as  he 
handed  the  mug  to  Mac,  who  drank  its  con 
tents,  his  merry  eyes  fixed  on  the  banker. 

"See  the  monarch  picking  up  the  painter's 
brushes,"  whispered  Boggs  to  Marny  from 
behind  his  hand. 

[201  ] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

And  so  the  evening  went  on,  the  mugs 
being  filled  and  emptied,  the  piano  opened, 
Woods  playing  the  accompaniment  to  all  the 
songs  the  Irishman  sang — and  he  had  a  dozen 
of  them  that  no  one  had  ever  heard  before — 
the  banker  and  club  man  joining  in  the 
chorus.  Then  with  pipes  and  mugs  in  hand 
the  circle  about  the  crackling  logs  was  formed 
anew — this  time  twice  its  regular  size  to  give 
Chief  plenty  of  room — and  the  story-telling 
part  of  the  evening  began. 

The  club  man  told  of  a  supper  he  had  been 
to  after  the  theatre  in  an  uptown  back  room, 
in  which  a  mysterious  man  and  a  veiled  lady 
figured.  Woods  supplemented  it  by  an  ex 
perience  of  his  own,  having  special  reference 
to  a  lost  lace  handkerchief  which  had  been 
discovered  in  the  outside  pocket  of  one  of 
the  male  guests,  producing  uncomfortable 
consequences.  I  gave  the  details  of  a  dinner 
where  I  had  met  a  titled  individual  who 
claimed  to  be  a  mighty  hunter  of  big  game, 
[  202  ] 


MR.    MACWHIRTER'S    VIEWS 

and  about  whom  the  prettiest  woman  in  the 
room  had  gone  wild,  and  who  turned  out 
later  to  be  somebody's  footman. 

Murphy,  not  to  be  outdone,  and  recogniz 
ing  that  his  turn  had  come,  remarked  in  a 
low  voice  that  my  story  of  big  game  reminded 
him  "of  something  in  his  own  experience,"  at 
which  Boggs  twisted  his  head  to  listen.  It 
was  evident  to  Boggs,  and  to  the  other  habit 
ues,  that  if  the  Irishman  talked  as  well  as  he 
sang  he  would  not  only  be  a  welcome  guest  at 
these  "nights"  but  he  might  also  attain  to  full 
membership  in  the  charmed  circle.  Of  one 
thing  everybody  was  assured — there  was  no 
"water  in  his  oil." 

"It's  about  a  fellow  countryman  of  Mr. 
MacWhirter's,  a  Scotchman  by  the  name  of 
MacDuff,"  the  Irishman  began. 

"Me  a  Scotchman!"  cried  Mac;  "I'm  only 
half  Scotch — wish  I  was  a  whole  one." 

"That's  because  you  took  to  beer  and  left 
off  drinking  whiskey,"  laughed  Murphy. 
[  203] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

"MacDuff  stuck  to  his  national  beverage. 
That's  what  helped  him  to  keep  his  end  up. 
All  this  happened  at  an  English  country 
house." 

Here  Boggs  hitched  his  chair  closer  so  that 
he  might  lead  the  applause  if  this  new  de 
parture  of  his  friend  as  a  story-teller  failed 
at  first  to  make  the  expected  hit,  and  thus 
needed  his  encouragement. 

"Up  in  Devonshire,"  continued  Murphy, 
"a  very  noble  lord  (his  ancestors  were  some 
thing  in  beer,  I  think)  was  giving  a  dinner  to 
Lord  Ponsonby,  K.C.B.,  Y.Z.,  and  maybe 
P.D.Q.,  for  all  I  know.  Ponsonby  had  just 
returned  from  India,  where  he  had  distin 
guished  himself  in  Her  Majesty's  service; 
stamped  out  a  mutiny,  perhaps,  by  hanging 
the  natives,  or  otherwise  disporting  himself 
after  the  manner  of  his  kind. 

"Imagine  the  interior  of  the  dining-room, 
if  you  please,  gentlemen — the  walls  panelled 
in  black  oak;  sideboards  to  match,  covered 
[  204] 


MR.    MACWHIRTER'S    VIEWS 

with  George  the  Third  silver  and  bearing  the 
new  coat-of-arms;  noiseless  servants  in  knee 
breeches,  except  the  head  butler  in  funereal 
black — black  as  a  raven  and  as  awkward ; 
old  family  portraits  on  the  walls;  big  win 
dows  overlooking  the  lawn  sweeping  to  the 
river,  with  rabbits  and  pheasants  making 
free  until  the  shooting  season  opened.  At 
the  head  of  the  table  sat  the  noble  lord, 
presiding  with  a  smile  that  was  an  inch  deep 
on  his  face.  On  his  right  sat  the  distinguished 
diplomat  with  a  bay  window  in  front  of  him, 
resting  on  the  edge  of  the  table,  and  kept 
snugly  in  place  by  a  white  waistcoat;  red  face, 
burgundy  red,  with  daily  washings  of  cham 
pagne  to  lend  some  tone  to  the  color;  gray 
side-whiskers  with  gray  standing  hair,  straight 
up  like  a  shoe  brush;  big  jowls  of  cheeks; 
flabby  mouth;  two  little  restless  eyes  like  a 
terrier's,  and  a  voice  like  a  fog-horn  with  an 
attack  of  croup.  When  he  glanced  down  the 
table  everybody  expected  fifty  lashes;  he  had 
[205  ] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

learned  that  look  in  India  and  carried  it  with 
him;  it  was  part  of  his  stock  in  trade. 

"Next  to  Ponsonby  sat  two  dudes  from 
London,  high-collared  chaps,  all  shirt  front 
and  white  tie,  hair  parted  in  the  middle  and 
slicked  down  on  the  sides  like  a  lady's  lap- 
dog.  One  had  six  hairs  on  each  side  of  his 
upper  lip  and  the  other  was  smooth  shaven. 
Then  came  a  country  parson,  a  fellow  in  a 
long-tailed  coat,  buttoned  up  to  his  chin,  with 
an  inch  of  collar  showing  above;  a  mild- 
mannered,  girl-voiced,  timid  brother,  with  a 
face  as  round  as  a  custard  pie  and  about  as  ex 
pressive.  When  he  was  spoken  to  he  rubbed 
his  bleached,  bony  hands  together,  bent  his 
shoulders,  and  answered  with  a  humility  that 
would  have  done  credit  to  a  Franciscan  monk 
begging  alms  for  a  convent.  He  had  eaten 
nothing  for  two  days  before  the  dinner — so 
nervous  had  he  become  over  the  great  honor 
conferred  upon  him  in  being  invited — and 
was  so  humble  when  he  arrived,  and  so  pale 
[  206  ] 


MR.    MACWHIRTER'S    VIEWS 

and  washed-out  looking,  that  after  being 
presented  to  the  great  man  his  host  inquired 
if  he  were  not  ill.  Opposite  these  sat  two  or 
three  country  gentlemen,  simple,  straightfor 
ward  men  who  make  up  the  best  of  English 
life.  Men  of  no  pretence  and  men  of  great 
simplicity.  These  two,  of  course,  were  also 
in  evening  dress. 

"At  the  end  of  the  table  sat  MacDuff,  a 
little,  red-headed,  sawed-off  Scotchman,  about 
as  high  as  Mr.  Boggs's  shoulder,  chunkily 
built,  square-chested;  clean-shaven  face,  with 
bristling  eyebrows,  searching  brown  eyes  that 
never  wyinked,  a  determined  jaw,  and  a  mouth 
that  came  together  like  a  trunk  lid — even  all 
along  the  lips.  He  was  dressed  in  a  suit  of 
gray  cloth,  sack  coat  and  all.  His  ancestors 
antedated  all  those  on  the  wall  by  about  two 
hundred  years,  and  as  a  modern  dress-suit  was 
unknown  in  their  day  he  selected  one  of  his 
own.  This  was  a  fad  of  his  and  one  every 
body  recognized.  No  dinner  was  complete 
[  207  ] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

without  MacDuff.  Very  often  he  never  spoke 
half  a  dozen  words  during  the  entire  repast. 
He  had  friends,  however,  up  at  the  castle, 
and  that  made  up  for  all  his  other  shortcom 
ings.  A  nod  of  MacDuff's  head  got  many  a 
man  his  appointment. 

"When  the  port  was  served,  the  noble  lord 
turned  to  his  distinguished  guest  and  said, 
with  a  glow  on  his  face  that  made  the  candles 
pale  with  envy: 

'  'Gentlemen,  I  am  about  to  arsk  Lord 
Ponsonby  a  great  favor,  and  I  know  that  you 
will  add  your  voice  to  mine  in  urging  him  to 
comply.  Only  larst  night  he  delighted  a 
number  of  us  at  the  club  by  giving  us  an 
account  of  a  most  extrawd'nary  adventure 
that  befell  him  in  the  wilds  of  India — a  most 
ex^nzwJ'nary  adventure.  I  have  rarely  seen, 
in  all  me  expa-rience,  so  profound  an  impres 
sion  made  upon  a  group  of  men.  I  am  now 
going  to  arsk  our  distinguished  guest  to  re 
peat  it.' 

[208] 


MR.    MACWHIRTER'S    VIEWS 

"At  this  Ponsonby  waved  his  hand  in  a 
deprecating  way,  just  as  he  would  have  done 
had  his  retainers  offered  him  the  crown — 
such  trifles  being  beneath  his  notice.  Our 
host  went  on : 

"  'Despite  his  reluctance,  I  feel  sure  that 
he  will  yield.  May  I  arsk  your  Lordship  to 
repeat  it  to  me  guests?' 

"Ponsonby  bowed;  settled  himself  slightly 
in  his  chair  so  that  the  curve  in  his  waistcoat 
could  have  full  play,  toyed  with  his  knife  a 
moment,  looked  up  at  the  ceiling  as  if  to  re 
member  some  of  the  most  important  details, 
cleared  his  throat,  and  shot  a  glance  down 
the  table  to  command  attention.  Everybody 
felt  that  the  slightest  sound  from  any  lips  but 
his  own  would  be  punished  with  instant  death. 

"  'Well,  I  don't  care  if  I  do.  About  four 
ye-ars  ago  His  Royal  Highness,  as  you  know, 
came  out  to  India,  and  it  became  part  of  me 
duty  to  attend  upon  his  purson.  He  was  good 
enough  to  remember  that  service  in  a  way 
[209] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

with  which,  of  course,  you  are  all  familiar. 
One  morning  at  daylight  his  equerry  came  to 
me  quarters,  routed  me  out  of  bed,  and  in 
formed  me  that  His  Royal  Highness  desired 
me  to  join  him  in  a  tiger  hunt,  which  had 
been  arranged  for  the  night  before,  and 
which,  owing  to  me  purfect  knowledge  of  the 
country — I  knowing  every  inch  of  the  ground 
— His  Royal  Highness  desired  to  have  con-  . 
ducted  under  me  supervision.' 

"The  two  dudes  were  now  listening  so  in 
tently  that  one  of  them  came  near  sliding  off 
the  chair.  The  Curate  sat  with  eyes  and 
mouth  open,  his  hand  cupping  his  ear,  drink 
ing  in  each  word  with  the  same  attention 
that  he  would  have  shown  the  Bishop  of  his 
diocese.  The  two  country  gentlemen  leaned 
forward  to  hear  the  better.  MacDuff  kept 
perfectly  still,  his  eyes  on  his  plate,  his  finger 
around  his  glass  of  Scotch  and  soda. 

"  'When   we   reached   the   jungle — I   was 
mounted  on  an  elephant  with  two  of  me  re- 
[210] 


MR.    MACWHIRTER'S    VIEWS 

tainers;  His  Royal  Highness  ahead  on  an 
other  elephant,  an  enor-mous  beast  accus 
tomed  to  hunts  of  this  ke-ind — I  heard  a 
plunge  in  the  thicket  to  me  left,  the  spring 
of  a  man-eater!  There  is  no  sound  like  it, 
gentlemen.  The  next  instant  he  came  head 
on,  bounding  like  a  great  cat.  When  he 
reached  the  elephant  of  His  Royal  Highness 
he  gathered  his  forepaws  under  him,  hunched 
his  hind  legs,  and  made  ready  for  the  fatal 
spring.  I  knew  what  would  happen.  I  re 
alized  in  an  instant  the  danger.  There  was 
one  chawnce  in  a  thousand,  but  that  chawnce 
I  must  take.  I  caught  up  me  forty-four! 
The  beast  was  now  in  the  air.  The  next  in 
stant  his  claws  would  be  in  the  flank  of  the 
elephant,  and  the  next  His  Royal  Highness 
would  be  chewed  to  mince-meat.  At  that 
instant  I  fired;  there  came  a  yell;  the  brute 
fell  back  lifeless,  and  the  Prince  was  saved! 
The  ball  had  taken  him  over  the  left  eye! 
I  dismounted  and  hurried  to  his  side.  He 

[211] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

was  the  largest  beast  of  his  ke-ind  I  had  ever 
seen  in  all  me  expa'rience  of  twenty  ye-ars. 
When  we  got  him  out  upon  the  sward  he 
measured  twenty-nine  feet  from  the  end  of 
his  nose  to  the  tip  of  his  tail.  If  His  Royal 
Highness,  gentlemen,  is  with  us  to-day,  it  is 
due  to  that  shot.' 

"A  dead  silence  followed.  Saving  a  future 
king's  life  was  too  grave  a  matter  for  ap 
plause.  The  silence  was  broken  by  one  of 
the  dudes  cackling  in  a  low  whisper  to  his 
mate: 

"  'Gus,  old  chap,  you  know  that  Ponsonby 
when  he  was  in  the  Gyards — aw — was  an 
awful  man  with  a  gun.  He  used  to  hit — aw 
— a  bull's-eye  every  time,  you  know — aw — 
aw — aw ' 

"The  country  gentlemen  held  their  peace. 
The  Curate  now  piped  up.  This  was  his 
opportunity. 

"  'Me  Lawd,'  he  cooed — a  dove  could  not 
have  been  more  dulcet  in  its  tones — 'what  I 
[  212  ] 


.AIR.    MACWHIRTER'S    VIEWS 

like  in  a  sto-ory  of  that  ke-ind  is  not  so  much 
the  wonderful  skill  of  the  sportsman  as  the 
marvellous  inflooence  of  the  British  character 
over  the  brute  beasts  of  the  field.' 

"Ponsonby  nodded  pompously  in  acknowl 
edgment,  and  continued  to  play  with  his 
knife.  The  host  beamed  down  the  table; 
comments  were  still  in  order — that's  what  the 
story  was  told  for.  The  country  gentlemen 
passed,  and  MacDuff,  reaching  over,  drew 
his  glass  of  Scotch  closer,  leaned  forward 
with  his  elbows  on  the  cloth,  lowered  his 
head,  and  fixed  his  gimlet  eyes  on  Ponsonby's 
face. 

"  'Well,  I  have  listened  with  gr'at  pl'asure 
to  the  story  of  Lord  Ponsonby.  It  is  veery 
interesting  and  it  was  veery  patriootic  of  him. 
I  am  not  much  of  a  hunter  mesel',  and  I  do 
not  shoot  tagers,  but  I  am  a  wee  bit  of  a 
fasherman,  and  last  soommer  up  in  the 
County  of  Dee  I  'ooked  a  veery  pecooliar 
fash  called  a  skat' — here  MacDuff  raised  his 
[213  ] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

glass  to  his  lips,  his  eyes  still  glued  to  Pon- 
sonby's  face — 'and  when  we  got  him  oout 
upon  th'  bank  he  covered  four  acres.' 

"Ponsonby  rose  to  his  feet  red  as  a  lobster; 
swore  that  he  had  never  been  so  insulted  in 
his  life,  the  host  trying  to  pacify  him.  The 
dudes  were  stunned,  while  the  country  gen 
tlemen  and  the  Curate  stood  aghast.  Mac- 
Duff  never  moved  an  inch  from  his  seat. 
Ponsonby,  purple  with  rage,  stalked  out  of 
the  room,  flung  himself  into  the  library,  fol 
lowed  by  the  host  and  all  the  guests  except 
MacDuff.  The  dudes  were  so  overcome  that 
they  were  mopping  their  faces  with  their  nap 
kins,  believing  them  to  be  their  handkerchiefs. 
While  Ponsonby  was  roaring  for  his  carriage 
the  host  rushed  back  to  MacDuff's  side. 

"  'You  must  apologize,  sir,  and  at  once,' 
he  screamed;  'at  once,  Mr.  MacDuff.  How 
is  it  possible,  sir,  for  a  man  raised  as  a  gen 
tleman  to  come  into  an  Englishman's  house 
and  insult  one  of  Her  Majesty's  most  distin- 
[214] 


MR.    MACWHIRTER'S    VIEWS 

guished  sarvants;  a  man  who  for  fifty  ye-ars 
has ' 

"MacDuff  clapped  one  hand  to  his  ear  as 
if  to  protect  it  from  rupture. 

"  'Don't  br'ak  the  drum  of  me  ear,'  he  said 
in  a  low,  deprecating  tone.  'I  didn't  mean 
to  insoolt  Lord  Ponsonby.  I  can't  apologize, 
for  the  story  of  the  skat's  true.  But  I'll  tell 
you  what  I'll  do.  If  Lord  Ponsonby  will  tak' 
aboout  eighteen  feet  off  the  length  of  that 
tager,  I'll  see  what  can  be  doon  aboout  the 
skat.'  And  he  emptied  the  contents  of  his 
glass  into  his  person." 

The  laughter  that  followed  the  conclusion 
of  Murphy's  story  was  so  loud  and  continu 
ous  that  the  big  St.  Bernard  dog  rose  to  his 
feet  and  fastened  his  eyes  on  his  master,  only 
resuming  his  position  on  the  rug  when  Lon- 
negan  laid  his  hand  reassuringly  on  his  head. 

Boggs  was  so  pleased  at  his  friend's  suc 
cess  that  he  could  hardly  keep  from  hugging 
[215] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

him.  All  doubts  as  to  Murphy's  being  asked 
to  become  a  permanent  member  of  the  Select 
Circle  were  dissipated.  What  delighted 
Boggs  most  was  the  combination  of  English, 
Irish,  and  Scotch  dialects  twisted  about  the 
same  tongue.  He  thought  he  knew  some 
thing  about  dialects,  but  Murphy  had  beaten 
him  at  his  own  game. 

Every  man  present  had  some  opinion  to 
offer  regarding  Ponsonby's  adventure,  and 
they  all  differed.  Marny  thought  the  Scot 
served  the  old  bag  of  wind  right,  even  if  he 
did  have  a  numismatic  collection  decorating 
his  chest.  The  banker  was  interested  in  the 
social  side  and  what  it  expressed,  and  said 
so,  winding  up  with  the  remark  that  the 
"Englishmen  knew  how  to  live."  Mac,  to 
the  surprise  of  everybody,  had  no  opinion  to 
offer.  Woods  was  more  philosophical. 

"To  me  the  story  is  much  more  than 
funny,"  said  Woods,  "it's  instructive.  Shows 
the  whole  national  spirit  of  the  English. 
[216] 


MR.     MACWHIRTER'S    VIEWS 

They  believe  in  rank  and  they  love  to  kotow. 
I  say  this  in  no  offensive  spirit;  and  being  an 
Irishman,  you,  of  course,  know  what  I  mean; 
and  to  tell  you  the  truth  I  am  English  in 
that  sense  myself.  I  believe  in  an  aristocracy 
and  in  class  distinction.  Here  everybody  is 
free  and  equal;  free  with  everything  you  own 
and  ready  to  divide  it  up  equally  as  soon  as 
they  get  their  hands  on  it.  Democracy  is  the 
curse  of  our  country." 

"Woods,  you  talk  like  a  two-cent  dema 
gogue,"  broke  out  Boggs.  "If  you  and  Lon- 
negan  don't  give  up  Murray  Hill  life  you'll 
be  worse  than  Mr.  Murphy's  two  dudes. 
There  is  no  such  thing  as  democracy  in  our 
country.  You  couldn't  find  it  with  a  micro 
scope.  As  soon  as  a  man  gets  one  hundred 
cents  together  and  has  got  them  hived  away 
safely  in  a  savings  bank  he  becomes  a  capi 
talist.  The  next  generation  breeds  aristo 
crats.  The  son  of  the  man  who  waits  be 
hind  Lonnegan's  chair  at  one  of  the  swell 
[217] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

affairs  uptown,  if  he  has  his  way,  will  be 
Minister  to  England,  and  wear  knee-breeches 
at  the  Queen's  receptions.  Even  the  negroes 
are  climbing;  some  of  them  even  now  are 
putting  on  more  airs  than  a  Harlem  goat 
with  a  hoopskirt.  When  they  get  on  top 
there  won't  be  anything  left  of  the  white 
man.  They  are  beginning  in  that  way  now 
down  South.  Now  you,"  turning  to  his 
friend  Murphy,  "have  told  us  a  story  which 
illustrates  a  phase  of  English  life  in  which 
the  middle  classes  stand  in  awe  of  the  higher 
ones.  Now  listen  to  one  of  mine,  which  illus 
trates  a  phase  of  American  life,  and  quite  the 
reverse  of  yours.  I'll  tell  it  to  you  just  as 
Major  Yancey  told  it  to  me,  and  I'll  give 
you,  as  near  as  I  can,  his  tones  of  voice. 
Wonderfully  pathetic,  that  Southern  dialect; 
it  certainly  was  to  me  the  day  I  heard  him 
tell  it.  This  Yancey  was  a  fraud,  so  far  as 
being  a  representative  Virginia  gentleman; 
didn't  get  within  a  thousand  miles  of  the  real 
[218] 


MR.    MACWHIRTER'S    VIEWS 

thing;  but  that  didn't  rob  his  story  of  a  cer 
tain  meaning." 

Here  Boggs  rose  to  his  feet.  "I'll  have 
to  get  up,"  he  said,  "for  this  is  one  of  the 
stories  I  can't  tell  sitting  down."  Nobody 
ever  heard  Boggs  tell  any  story  sitting  down. 
The  restless  little  fellow  was  generally  on  his 
plump  legs  during  most  of  his  deliveries. 

"I  had  seen  Yancey  in  the  hotel  corridor 
when  I  came  in,  and  had  stubbed  my  toe  over 
his  outstretched  legs — out  like  a  pair  of  skids 
on  the  tail  of  a  dray;  had  apologized  to  the 
legs;  had  been  apologized  to  most  effusively 
in  return,  with  the  result  that  a  few  minutes 
later  I  found  him  at  my  elbow  at  the  bar, 
where,  after  some  protestations  on  his  part, 
he  concluded  to  accept  my  very  'co-tious'  in 
vitation,  and  'take  somethin'.' 

"  'I  am  sorry  I  haven't  a  ke-ard,  suh.  My 
name  is  Yancey,  suh — Thomas  Morton  Yan 
cey,  of  Green  Briar  County,  Virginia.  You 
don't  know  that  po'tion  of  my  State,  suh. 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

It's  God's  own  country.  Great  changes  have 
taken  place,  suh — not  only  in  our  section  of 
the  State,  but  in  our  people.  I  myself  am 
not  what  I  appear,  suh,  as  you  shall  learn 
later.  The  old  rulin'  classes  are  goin'  to 
the  wall;  it  is  the  po'  white  trash  and  the 
negroes,  suh,  that  are  comin'  to  the  front. 
Pretty  soon  we  shall  have  to  ask  their  permis 
sion  to  live  on  the  earth.  Now,  to  give  you 
an  idea,  suh,  of  what  these  changes  mean,  and 
how  stealthily  they  are  creepin'  in  among  us, 
I  want  to  tell  you,  suh,  somethin'  connected 
with  my  own  life,  for  ev'ry  word  of  which 
I  can  vouch.  Thank  you,  I  will  take  a  drop 
of  bitters  in  mine,'  and  he  held  his  glass  out 
to  the  barkeeper.  'I  don't  want  to  detain 
you,  suh,  and  I  don't  want  to  bore  you,  but 
it's  the  first  time  for  some  months  that  I  have 
had  the  pleasure  of  meetin'  a  Northern  gen 
tleman,  and  I  feel  it  my  duty,  suh,  to  give 
you  somethin'  of  the  inside  history  of  the 
South,  and  to  let  you  know,  suh,  what  we 
[  220  ] 


MR.    MACWHIRTER'S    VIEWS 

Southern  people   suffered   immediately   after 
the  war,  and  are  still  sufferin'. 

"  'As  for  myself,  suh,  I  came  out  penniless, 
my  estates  practically  confiscated,  owin'  to 
some  very  peremptory  proceedin's  which  took 
place  immediately  after  the  surrender.  I,  of 
course,  suh,  like  many  other  gentlemen  of  my 
standin',  found  it  necessary  to  go  to  work, 
the  first  stroke  of  work  that  any  of  my  blood, 
suh,  had  ever  done  since  my  ancestors  settled 
that  po'tion  of  the  State,  suh.  A  crisis,  suh, 
had  arrived  in  my  life,  and  I  proposed  to 
meet  it.  Question  was,  what  could  I  do?  I 
hadn't  studied  law  and  so  I  could  not  be  a 
lawyer,  and  I  hadn't  taken  any  course  in 
medicine  and  so  I  couldn't  be  a  doctor;  and 
I  want  to  tell  you,  suh,  that  the  politics  of 
my  State  were  not  runnin'  in  a  groove  by 
which  I  could  be  elected  to  any  public  office. 
After  lookin'  over  the  ground  I  decided  to 
open  a  livery  stable.  Don't  start,  suh.  I 
know  it  will  shock  you  when  I  tell  you  that 
[  221  ] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

a  Yancey  had  fallen  so  low,  but  you  must 
know,  suh,  that  my  wife  hadn't  had  a  new 
dress  in  fo'  years  and  my  children  were  pretty 
nigh  barefoot.  Well,  suh,  a  circus  company 
had  passed  through  our  way  and  left  two 
spavined  horses  in  Judge  Caldwell's  lot  and 
a  bo'rd  bill  of  fo'  dollars  and  ninety-two 
cents  unpaid.  I  took  my  note  for  a  hundred 
dollars  and  Judge  Caldwell  endorsed  it,  and 
I  sold  it  for  the  amount  of  the  bo'rd  bill, 
and  I  got  the  two  horses.  Then  I  made  an 
other  note  for  a  similar  amount  and  secured 
it  by  a  mortgage  on  the  horses,  and  got  a 
fo'seated  wagon  and  two  sets  of  second-hand 
harness.  Then  I  put  a  sign  over  my  barn 
do' — "Thomas  Martin  Yancey,  Livery  & 
Sale  Stable." 

"  'About  a  week  after  I  had  started  Colo 
nel  Moseley's  black  Sam — free  then,  of  co'se, 
suh — come  down  to  my  place  and  said, 
"Major  Yancey,  there's  goin'  to  be  a  ball 
over  to  Barboursville " 

[  222  ] 


Mil.    MACWHIRTER'S    VIEWS 

"  '  "Is  there,  Sam?"  I  said.  "You  niggers 
seem  to  be  gettin'  up  in  the  world." 

"  '  "Yes,"  he  said,  "and  I  want  you  to 
hook  yo'  rig  and  take  eight  of  us " 

"'"What!  you  infernal  scoundrel!  You 
come  to  me  and  ask  me  to " 

"  '  "Now,  don't  get  het  up,  Major!  Eight 
niggers  at  fifty  cents  apiece  is  fo'  dollars." 

"  '  "Yancey,"  I  said  to  myself,  "brace  up! 
This  is  one  of  the  great  crises  of  yo'  life. 
Sam,  bring  on  yo'  mokes !" 

"  'There  was  fo'  bucks  and  fo'  wenches, 
all  rigged  out  to  kill.  I  put  'em  in  and 
started. 

"  'It  was  a  very  cold  night,  coldest  weather 
I'd  seen  in  my  State  for  years,  with  a  light 
crust  of  snow  on  the  ground.  When  we  got 
to  Barboursville — it  was  about  eight  miles— 
I  found  the  ball  was  over  a  grocery  store  with 
a  pair  of  steps  goin'  up  on  the  outside  to  a 
little  bal-cony.  Well,  suh,  they  got  out  and 
went  up  ahead,  and  I  blanketed  the  horses 
[  223  ] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

and  followed.  When  I  opened  the  do' — you 
ain't  familiar,  suh,  I  reckon,  with  our  part  of 
the  country,  suh,  but  I  tell  you,  suh,  that  with 
three  fiddles,  two  red  hot  stoves,  and  eighty 
niggers,  all  dancin',  the  atmosphere  was  op 
pressive  !  I  stood  it  as  long  as  I  could  and 
then  I  went  out  on  the  bal-cony.  Then  I  said 
to  myself — "Yancey,  this  is  a  great  crisis  of 
yo'  life,  but  you  needn't  get  pneumonia.  Go 
in  and  sit  down  inside." 

"  'I  hadn't  been  there  three  minutes,  suh, 
when  black  Sam  came  up  to  the  bench  on 
which  I  was  sittin' — he  had  two  wenches 
on  his  arm — and  said,  "Major  Yancey; 
would  you  have  any  objection  to  steppin' 
outside?" 

'""Why?"  I  asked. 

"  '  "Cause  some  of  the  ladies  objects  to  the 
smell  of  horse  in  yo'  clo'es." 

"  'I  left  the  livery  business  that  night,  suh, 
and  I  am  what  you  see — a  broken-down 
Southern  gentleman.'  ' 

[  224] 


MR.    MACWHIRTER'S    VIEWS 

Another  outburst  of  laughter  followed. 
Everybody  agreed  that  Boggs  had  never  been 
so  happy  in  his  delineations.  The  banker, 
who  knew  something  of  the  Southern  dialects, 
was  overjoyed.  The  allusion  to  the  ungen- 
tlemanly  foreclosure  proceedings  touched  his 
funny-bone  in  a  peculiar  manner,  and  set  him 
to  laughing  again  whenever  he  thought  of  it. 
Everybody  had  expressed  some  opinion  both 
of  Murphy's  story  and  of  Boggs's  yarn  but 
MacWhirter,  who,  strange  to  say,  had  seen 
nothing  humorous  in  either  narrative.  Dur 
ing  the  telling  he  had  been  bending  over  in 
his  chair  stroking  the  dog's  ears. 

"What  do  you  think  of  the  two  yarns, 
Mac?"  asked  Marny. 

"Think  just  what  Mr.  Murphy  thinks— 
that  the  Englishman  was  a  snob,  Ponsonby  a 
cad,  and  that  MacDuff  should  have  been 
shown  the  door.  The  group  about  that  Eng 
lishman's  table  was  not  of  the  best  English 
society — nowhere  near  it.  Consideration  for 
[  225  ] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

the  other  man's  feelings,  the  one  below  you 
in  rank,  invariably  distinguishes  the  true  Eng 
lish  gentleman.  That  old  story  about  the 
sergeant  who  got  the  Victoria  Cross  for 
bringing  a  wounded  officer  out  under  fire 
illustrates  what  I  mean,"  continued  Mac  in 
a  perfectly  grave,  sober  voice. 

"Never  heard  it." 

"Then  I'll  tell  you.  He  had  crawled  on 
all  fours  to  a  wounded  officer,  picked  him  up, 
and  had  carried  him  off  the  firing  line  under 
a  hail  of  bullets,  one  of  which  broke  his  wrist. 
He  was  promoted  on  the  field  by  his  com 
manding  officer,  got  the  V.C.,  and  took  his 
place  among  his  now  brother  officers  at  the 
company's  mess,  and,  it  being  his  first  meal, 
sat  on  the  Colonel's  right.  Ice  was  served, 
a  little  piece  about  the  size  of  a  lump  of 
sugar — precious  as  gold  in  that  climate.  It 
was  for  the  champagne,  something  he  had 
never  seen.  The  hero  was  served  first.  He 
hesitated  a  moment,  and  dropped  it  in  his 
[  226] 


MR.    MACWHIRTER'S    VIEWS 

soup.  The  Colonel  took  his  piece  and 
dropped  it  in  his  soup;  so  did  every  other 
gentleman  down  both  sides  of  the  table  drop 
his  in  the  soup.  As  to  Boggs's  Virginian, 
he  got  what  he  deserved.  He  was  trying  to 
be  something  that  he  wasn't;  I'm  glad  the 
darkey  took  the  pride  out  of  him.  It's  all  a 
pretence  and  a  sham.  They  are  all  trying 
to  be  something  they  are  not.  'Tisn't  de 
mocracy  or  aristocracy  that  is  to  blame  with 
us — it's  the  growing  power  of  riches;  the 
crowding  the  poor  from  off  the  face  of  the 
earth.  Nothing  counts  now  but  a  bank  ac 
count.  Pretty  soon  we  will  have  a  clearing 
house  of  titles,  based  on  incomes.  When  the 
cashier  certifies  to  the  amount,  the  title  is 
conferred.  The  man  of  one  million  will  be 
come  a  lord;  the  man  with  two  millions  a 
count;  three  millions  a  duke,  and  so  on.  To 
me  all  this  climbing  is  idiotic." 

Roars   of   laughter    followed    Mac's   out 
burst.     When  Boggs  got  his  breath  he  de- 
[  227  ] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

clared  between  his  gasps  that  Mac's  criticisms 
were  funnier  than  Murphy's  story. 

"Takes  it  all  seriously;  not  a  ghost  of  a 
sense  of  humor  in  him!  Isn't  he  delicious!" 

"Go  on,  laugh  away!"  continued  Mac- 
Whirter.  "The  whole  thing,  I  tell  you,  is 
a  fraud  and  a  sham.  Social  ladders  are  only 
a  few  feet  long,  and  the  top  round,  after  all, 
is  not  very  far  from  the  earth.  When  you 
climb  up  to  that  rung,  if  you  are  worth  any 
thing,  you  begin  to  get  lonely  for  the  other 
fellow,  who  couldn't  climb  so  high.  If  it 
wasn't  for  our  wood  fire  even  our  dear  Lon- 
negan  would  freeze  to  death.  He  thinks  he's 
real  mahogany,  and  so  he  sits  round  and  helps 
furnish  some  swell's  drawing-room.  But 
that's  only  Lonny's  veneer;  his  heart's  all 
right  underneath,  and  it's  solid  hickory  all 
the  way  through." 

When  the  last  of  the  guests  had  gone,  fol 
lowed  by   Chief  and  some  of  the  habitues, 
[228] 


MR.    MACWHIRTER'S    VIEWS 

only  Boggs,  Marny,  Mac,  and  I  remained. 
Our  rooms  were  within  a  few  steps  of  the 
fire  and  it  mattered  not  how  late  we  sat  up. 
The  mugs  were  refilled,  pipes  relighted,  some 
extra  sticks  thrown  on  the  andirons,  and  the 
chairs  drawn  closer.  The  fire  responded 
bravely — the  old  logs  were  always  willing  to 
make  a  night  of  it.  The  best  part  of  the 
evening  was  to  come — that  part  when  its  in 
cidents  are  talked  over. 

"Mac,"  said  Marny,  "you  deride  money, 
class  distinctions,  ambition.  What  would 
you  want  most  if  you  had  your  wish?" 

"Not  much." 

"Well,  let's  have  it;  out  with  it!"  insisted 
Marny. 

"What  would  I  want?  Why  just  what 
I've  got.  An  easy  chair,  a  pipe,  a  dog  once 
in  a  while,  some  books,  a  wood  fire,  and 
you  on  the  other  side,  old  man,"  and  he 
laid  his  hand  affectionately  on  Marny's 
shoulder. 

[  229] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

"Anything  more?"  asked  Boggs,  who  had 
been  eying  his  friend  closely. 

"Yes;  a  picture  that  really  satisfied  me,  in 
stead  of  the  truck  I'm  turning  out." 

"And  you  can  think  of  nothing  else?" 
asked  Boggs,  still  keeping  his  eyes  on  Mac,  his 
own  face  struggling  with  a  suppressed  smile. 

"No —  Then  catching  the  twinkle  in 
Boggs's  eyes— "What?" 

"A  climbing  millionnaire  to  buy  it  and  a 
swell  Murray  Hill  palace  to  hang  it  up  in," 
laughed  Boggs. 

Mac  smiled  faintly  and  leaned  forward  in 
his  chair,  the  glow  of  the  fire  lighting  up  his 
kindly  face.  For  some  minutes  he  did  not 
move;  then  a  half-smothered  sigh  escaped 
him. 

Instantly  there  rose  in  my  mind  the  figure 
of  the  girl  in  the  steamer  chair,  the  roses  in 
her  lap. 

"Was  there  nothing  more?"  I  asked  my 
self. 


PART    VIII 

In  Which  Murphy  and  Lonnegan  Introduce 
Some  Mysterious  Characters. 

THE  Old  Building  was  being  treated  to 
a  sensation,  the  first  of  the  winter,  or 
rather  the  first  of  the  spring,  for  the  squatty 
Japanese  bowl  standing  on  top  of  Mac's 
mantel  was  already  filled  with  pussy-willows 
which  the  great  man  had  himself  picked  on 
one  of  his  strolls  under  the  Palisades. 

Strange  things  were  going  on  downstairs. 
Outside  on  the  street  curb  stood  a  darkey  in 
white  cotton  gloves,  in  the  main  door  stood 
another,  the  two  connected  by  a  red  carpet 
laid  across  the  sidewalk;  at  the  end  of  the 
dingy  corridor  stood  a  third,  and  inside  the 
room  on  the  right  a  fourth  and  fifth — all  in 
white  gloves  and  all  bowing  like  salaaming 
[  231  ] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

Hindoos  to  a  throng  of  people  in  smart 
toilettes. 

Woods  was  having  a  tea ! 

The  portrait  of  Miss  B.  J. — in  a  leghorn 
hat  and  feathers,  one  hand  on  her  chin,  her 
pet  dog  in  her  lap — was  finished,  and  the 
B.  Js.  were  assisting  Woods's  aunt  and 
Woods  in  celebrating  that  historical  event. 
The  function  being  an  exclusive  one,  all  the 
details  were  perfect:  There  were  innumerable 
candles  sputtering  away  in  improvised  hold 
ers  of  twisted  iron,  china,  and  dingy  brass, 
the  grease  running  down  the  sides  of  their 
various  ornaments;  there  were  burning  joss 
sticks;  loose  heaps  of  bric-a-brac  which  looked 
as  if  they  had  been  thrown  pell-mell  together, 
but  which  it  had  taken  Woods  hours  to 
group;  there  were  combinations  of  partly 
screened  lights  falling  on  pots  of  roses;  easels 
draped  in  stuffs;  screens  hung  with  Japanese 
and  Chinese  robes;  divans  covered  with  rugs 
and  nested  with  green  and  yellow  cushions; 
[  232  ] 


SOME  MYSTERIOUS  CHARACTERS 

and  last,  but  by  no  means  least,  there  was  the 
counterfeit  presentment  of  the  young  girl  who 
held  court  on  the  divan  surrounded  by  an 
admiring  group  of  admirers;  some  of  whom 
declared  that  the  likeness  was  perfect;  others 
that  it  did  not  do  her  justice,  and  still  another 
— this  time  an  art  critic — who  said  under  his 
breath  that  the  dog  was  the  only  thing  on  the 
canvas  that  looked  alive. 

Upstairs,  before  his  wood  fire,  sat  Mac- 
Whirter,  with  only  Marny  and  me  to  keep 
him  company.  He  never  went  to  teas;  didn't 
believe  in  mixing  with  society. 

"Better  shut  the  door,  hadn't  I?"  said 
Mac.  "Those  joss  sticks  of  Woods's  smell 
like  an  opium  joint,"  and  he  began  shifting 
the  screen.  "Hello,  Lonnegan,  that  you?" 

"That's  me,  Mac,"  answered  the  architect 
in  a  cheery  tone.  "Are  you  moving  house?" 

"No,  trying  to  get  my  breath.     Did  you 
ever  smell  anything  worse  than  that  heathen 
punk  Woods  is  burning?" 
[  233] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

"You  ought  to  get  a  whiff  of  it  inside  his 
studio,"  answered  Lonnegan.  "Got  every 
window  tight  shut,  the  room  darkened,  and 
jammed  with  people.  Came  near  getting  my 
clothes  torn  off  wedging  myself  in  and  out," 
he  continued,  readjusting  his  scarf,  pulling 
up  the  collar  of  his  Prince  Albert  coat, 
and  tightening  the  gardenia  in  his  but 
ton-hole.  "You're  going  down,  Mac,  aren't 
you?" 

"No,  going  to  stay  right  here;  so  is  Marny 
and  the  Colonel." 

"Woods  won't  like  it." 

"Can't  help  it.  Woods  ought  to  have  bet 
ter  sense  than  to  turn  his  studio  upside  down 
for  a  lot  of  people  that  don't  know  a  Velas 
quez  from  an  'Old  Oaken  Bucket'  chromo. 
Art  is  a  religion,  not  a  Punch  and  Judy  show. 
Whole  thing  is  vulgar.  Imagine  Rembrandt 
showing  his  'Night  Watch'  for  the  first  time 
to  the  rag-tag  and  bob-tail  of  Amsterdam,  or 
Titian  making  a  night  of  it  over  his  'Ascen- 
[234] 


SOME  MYSTERIOUS  CHARACTERS 

sion.'  Sacrilege,  I  tell  you,  this  mixing  up 
of  ice-cream  and  paint;  makes  a  farce  of  a 
high  calling  and  a  mountebank  of  the  artist! 
If  we  are  put  here  for  anything  in  this  world 
it  is  to  show  our  fellow-sinners  something  of 
the  beauty  we  see  and  they  can't;  not  to  turn 
clowns  for  their  amusement." 

Boggs  and  Murphy — the  Irish  journalist 
had  long  since  become  a  full  member — had 
entered  and  stood  listening  to  Mac's  ha 
rangue. 

"Land  o'  Moses!  Whew!"  burst  out  the 
Chronic  Interrupter.  "What's  the  matter 
with  you,  Mac?  You  never  were  more  mis 
taken  in  your  life.  You  sit  up  here  and  roast 
yourself  over  the  fire  and  you  don't  know 
what's  going  on  outside.  Woods  is  all  right. 
He's  got  his  living  to  make  and  his  studio 
rent  to  pay,  and  his  old  aunt  is  as  strong  as 
a  three-year-old  and  may  live  to  be  ninety. 
If  these  people  want  ice-cream  fed  to  them 
out  of  oil  cups  and  want  to  eat  it  with  palette 
[  235  ] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

knives,  let  'em  do  it.  That  doesn't  make  the 
picture  any  worse.  You  saw  it.  It's  a  bully 
good  portrait.  Fifty  times  better  looking 
than  the  girl  and  some  ripping  good  things 
in  it — shadow  tones  under  the  hat  and  the 
brush  work  on  the  gown  are  way  up  in  G. 
Don't  you  think  so,  Lonnegan?" 

"Yes,  best  thing  Woods  has  done;  but 
Mac  is  partly  right  about  the  jam  downstairs. 
Half  of  them  didn't  know  Woods  when  they 
came  in.  One  woman  asked  me  if  I  was  he, 
and  when  I  pointed  him  out,  beaming  away, 
she  said,  'What!  that  little  bald-headed  fel 
low  with  a  red  face  ?  And  is  that  the  picture  ? 
Why,  I  am  surprised!' 

"Of  course  she  was  surprised,"  chimed  in 
Mac.  "What  she  expected  to  see  was  a  six- 
legged  goat  or  a  cow  with  two  tails." 

Jack  Stirling's  head  was  now  thrust  over 
the  Chinese  screen.     Jack  had  been  South  for 
half  the  winter  and  his  genial  face  was  the 
signal  for  a  prolonged  shout  of  welcome. 
[236] 


SOME  MYSTERIOUS  CHARACTERS 

"Yes,  that's  me,"  Jack  answered,  "got  home 
this  morning;  almighty  glad  to  see  you  fel 
lows!  Mac,  old  man,  you  look  more  like 
John  Gilbert  grown  young  than  ever;  getting 
another  chin  on  you.  Lonny,  shake,  old  fel 
low  !  Hello,  Boggs !  you're  fat  enough  to 
kill.  Mr.  Murphy,  glad  to  see  you;  heard 
you  had  been  given  a  chair  by  Mac's  fire. 
Oh,  biggest  joke  on  me,  fellows,  you  ever 
heard.  I  stopped  in  at  Woods's  tea-party  a 
few  minutes  ago.  Lord!  what  a  jam!  and 
hot!  Well,  Florida  is  a  refrigerator  to  it. 
Struck  a  pretty  girl — French,  I  think — pretty 
as  a  picture;  big  hat,  gown  fitting  like  a  glove, 
eyes,  mouth,  teeth — well !  You  remember 
Christine,  don't  you,  Mac?"  and  he  winked 
meaningly  at  our  host.  "Same  type,  only  a 
trifle  stouter.  She  wanted  to  know  how  old 
one  of  Woods's  tapestries  was,  and  where  one 
of  his  embroideries  came  from,  and  I  got  her 
off  on  a  divan  and  we  were  having  a  beauti 
ful  time  when  an  old  lady  came  up  and  called 

[  237  ] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

me  off,  and  whispered  in  my  ear  that  I  ought 
to  know  that  my  charmer  was  her  own  dress 
maker,  who  was  looking  up  new  costumes 
and " 

"Fine!  Glorious!"  shouted  Mac.  "That's 
something  like !  That's  probably  the  only 
honest  guest  Woods  has.  I  hope,  Jack,  you 
went  right  back  to  her  and  did  your  prettiest 
to  entertain  her." 

"I  tried  to,  but  she  had  skipped.  Give  me 
a  pipe,  Mac.  Lord,  fellows,  but  it's  good  to 
get  back!  You'll  find  this  a  haven  of  rest, 
Mr.  Murphy,"  and  Jack  laid  his  hand  on  the 
Irishman's  knee. 

"It's  the  only  place  that  fits  my  shoulders 
and  warms  my  heart,  anyhow,"  answered 
Murphy.  "It's  good  of  you  to  let  me  in. 
You  live  so  fast  over  here  that  a  little  cranny 
like  this,  where  you  can  get  out  of  the  rush, 
is  a  Godsend.  Your  adventure  downstairs 
with  the  dressmaker,  Mr.  Stirling,  reminds 
me  of  what  happened  at  one  of  our  great 
[238] 


SOME  MYSTERIOUS  CHARACTERS 

London  houses  last  winter,  and  which  is  still 
the  social  mystery  of  London." 

Boggs  waved  his  hand  to  command  atten 
tion.  His  friend  Murphy's  yarns  were  the 
hit  of  the  winter.  "Listen,  Jack,"  he  said  in 
a  lower  tone,  "they  are  all  brand-new  and  he 
tells  'em  like  a  master.  Nobody  can  touch 
him.  Draw  up,  Pitkin — "  the  sculptor  had 
just  come  in  from  Woods's  tea. 

"We  have  the  same  thing  in  England  to 
fight  against  that  you  have  here.  Our  studios 
and  private  exhibitions  are  blocked  up  with 
people  who  are  never  invited.  Hardest  thing 
to  keep  them  out.  The  incident  I  refer  to 
occurred  in  one  of  those  great  London  houses 
on  Grosvenor  Square,  occupied  that  winter  by 
Lord  and  Lady  Arbuckle — a  dingy,  smoky, 
grime-covered  old  mansion,  with  a  green- 
painted  door,  flower  boxes  in  the  windows, 
and  a  line  of  daisies  and  geraniums  fringing 
the  rail  of  the  balcony  above. 

"There  the  Arbuckles  gave  a  series  of  din- 

[  239  1 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

ners  or  entertainments  that  were  the  talk  of 
London,  not  for  their  magnificence  so  much 
as  for  the  miscellaneous  lot  of  people  Lady 
Arbuckle  would  gather  together  in  her  draw 
ing-rooms.  If  somebody  from  Vienna  had 
discovered  microbes  in  cherry  jam,  off  went 
an  invitation  to  the  distinguished  professor 
to  dine  or  tea  or  be  received  and  shaken  hands 
with.  Savants  with  big  foreheads,  hollow 
eyes,  and  shabby  clothes;  sunburned  soldiers 
from  the  Soudan;  fat  composers  from  Leip- 
sic;  long-haired  painters  from  Munich;  Ind 
ian  princes  in  silk  pajamas  and  kohinoors, 
were  all  run  to  cover,  caught,  and  let  loose 
at  the  Arbuckle's  Thursdays  in  Lent,  or  had 
places  under  her  mahogany.  Old  Arbuckle 
let  it  go  on  without  a  murmur.  If  Catherine 
liked  that  sort  of  thing,  why  that  was  the  sort 
of  thing  that  Catherine  liked.  He  would 
preside  at  the  head  of  the  table  in  his  white 
choker  and  immaculate  shirt  front  and  do  the 
honors  of  the  house.  Occasionally,  when 
[240] 


SOME  MYSTERIOUS  CHARACTERS 

Parliament  was  not  sitting,  he  would  stroll 
through  the  drawing-rooms,  shake  hands  with 
those  he  knew,  and  return  the  salaams  or 
stares  of  those  he  did  not. 

"On  this  particular  night  there  was  to  be 
an  imposing  list  of  guests,  the  dinner  being 
served  at  eight-thirty  sharp.  Not  only  was 
the  Prime  Minister  expected,  but  a  special 
collection  of  social  freaks  had  been  invited  to 
meet  him,  including  Prince  Pompernetski  of 
the  Imperial  Guards — who  turned  out  after 
ward  to  be  a  renegade  Pole  and  a  swindler; 
the  Rajah  of  Bramapootah — a  waddling  Ori 
ental  who  always  brought  his  Cayenne  pepper 
with  him  in  the  pocket  of  his  embroidered 
pajamas;  one  or  two  noble  lords  and  their 
wives,  some  officers,  and  a  scattering  of  lesser 
lights — twenty-two  in  all. 

"At  eight-twenty   the   carriages  began   to 

arrive,  the  Bobby  on  the  beat  regulating  the 

traffic;  the  guests  stepping  out  upon  a  carpet 

a  little  longer  and  wider  than  the  one  Mr. 

[241] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

Woods  has  laid  over  the  sidewalk  down 
stairs. 

"Once  inside,  the  guests  were  taken  in 
charge  by  a  line  of  flunkeys — the  women  to 
a  cloak  room  on  the  right,  the  men  to  a  base 
ment  room  on  the  left — where  'Chawles' 
handed  each  man  an  envelope  containing  the 
name  of  the  lady  he  was  to  take  out  to  din 
ner  and  a  diagram  designating  the  location  of 
his  seat  at  his  host's  table. 

"By  eight-twenty-five  all  the  guests  had 
arrived  except  General  Sir  John  Catnall  and 
Lady  Catnall,  who  had  passed  thirty  years  of 
their  life  in  India  and  who  had  arrived  in 
London  but  the  night  before,  where  they 
were  met  by  one  of  Lady  Arbuckle's  notes 
inviting  them  to  dinner  to  meet  the  Prime 
Minister.  That  the  dear  woman  had  never 
laid  eyes  on  the  Indian  exiles  and  would  not 
know  either  of  them  had  she  met  them  on 
her  sidewalk  made  no  difference  to  her.  The 
butler  in  announcing  their  names  would  help 
[  242] 


SOME  MYSTERIOUS  CHARACTERS 

her  over  this  difficulty,  as  he  had  done  a  hun 
dred  times  before.  That  the  short  notice 
might  prevent  their  putting  in  an  appearance 
did  not  trouble  her  in  the  least.  She  knew 
her  London.  Prime  Ministers  were  not  met 
with  every  day,  even  in  the  best  of  houses. 

"At  eight-thirty  the  two  missing  guests 
arrived,  Sir  John  sun-baked  to  the  color  of 
a  coolie,  and  Lady  Catnall  not  much  better 
off  so  far  as  complexion  was  concerned.  The 
climate  had  evidently  done  its  work.  Their 
queerly  cut  clothes,  too,  showed  how  long 
they  had  been  out  of  London. 

"With  their  announcement  by  the  flunkey, 
who  bawled  out  their  names  so  indistinctly 
that  nobody  caught  them — not  even  Lady 
Arbuckle — the  guests  marched  out  to  dinner, 
Lord  Arbuckle  leading  with  the  wife  of  the 
Prime  Minister;  Lady  Arbuckle  bringing  up 
the  rear  with  the  Rajah,  without  that  lady 
having  the  dimmest  idea  as  to  whether  all  her 
guests  were  present  or  not. 
[  243  1 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

"Sir  John  found  himself  next  to  a  Rou 
manian  woman  who  had  spent  three-quarters 
of  her  life  in  Persia,  and  Lady  Catnall  sat 
beside  a  baldheaded  scientist  from  Berlin  who 
spoke  English  as  if  he  were  cracking  nuts. 
None  of  the  four  had  ever  heard  of  the 
others'  existence. 

"The  dinner  was  the  usual  deadly  dull 
affair.  The  Prime  Minister  smiled  and 
beamed  over  his  high  collar  and  emitted 
platitudes  that  anybody  could  print  without 
getting  the  faintest  idea  of  his  meaning;  and 
the  Rajah  peppered  and  ate  with  hardly  a 
word  of  any  kind  to  the  lady  next  him,  who 
talked  incessantly;  the  Scientist  jabbered  Ger 
man,  completely  ignorant  of  the  fact  that 
Lady  Catnall  could  not  understand  a  word 
of  what  he  said,  and  the  other  great  person 
ages — especially  the  women — looked  through 
their  lorgnons  and  studied  the  menagerie. 

"When  the  port  had  been  served  and  the 
ladies  had  risen  to  leave  the  men  to  their 
[244] 


SOME  MYSTERIOUS  CHARACTERS 

cigars,  Sir  John  Catnall  conducted  the  Rou 
manian-Persian  combination  to  the  drawing- 
room  door,  clicked  his  heels,  bent  his  back 
in  a  salaam,  and  with  a  certain  anxious  look 
on  his  face  hurried  back  to  the  dining-room, 
and  seeing  the  seat  next  Lord  Arbuckle  tem 
porarily  empty  slid  into  it,  laid  his  bronzed 
hand  on  his  host's  thin,  white,  blue-veined 
wrist,  and  said  in  a  voice  trembling  with  sup 
pressed  emotion : 

"  'We  got  your  wife's  note  and  came  at 
once,  although  our  boxes  are  still  unpacked. 
I  could  hardly  get  through  the  dinner  I  have 
been  so  anxious,  but  we  arrived  so  late  I 
could  not  ask  your  wife — indeed  you  were 
already  moving  in  to  dinner  when  your  man 
brought  us  in.  I  am  in  London,  as  you  know, 
to  consult  an  oculist,  for  my  eyesight  is 
greatly  impaired,  and  he  called  profession 
ally  just  as  I  was  leaving  my  lodgings.' 
Then  bending  over  Lord  Arbuckle  he  said  in 
a  voice  tremulous  \vith  emotion,  'Tell  me 

[245] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

now  about  Eliza;  is  she  really  as  badly  off 
as  your  wife  thinks?' 

"Arbuckle  had  learned  one  thing  during 
his  long  life  with  Catherine,  never,  as  you 
Americans  say,  to  'give  her  away.'  The 
identity  of  the  partly  blind,  sunburned  man, 
with  half  a  cataract  over  each  eye,  who  was 
gazing  at  him  so  intently  awaiting  an  answer 
from  his  lips,  was  as  much  of  a  mystery  to 
him  as  was  the  particular  malady  with  which 
the  unknown  Eliza  was  afflicted  or  the  con 
tents  of  his  wife's  letter.  Instantly  Lord 
Arbuckle's  face  took  on  a  grave  and  serious 
expression. 

'Yes,'  he  answered  slowly;  'yes,  I  regret 
to  say  that  it  is  all  true.' 

"  'Good  God !'  ejaculated  the  stranger, 
'you  don't  say  so.  Terrible  !  Terrible  !'  and 
without  another  word  he  rose  from  his  seat, 
tarried  for  a  moment  at  the  mantel  gazing 
into  the  coals,  and  then  slowly  rejoined  the 
ladies. 

[246] 


SOME  MYSTERIOUS  CHARACTERS 

"When  the  last  guest  had  departed  Ar- 
buckle,  who  had  been  smothering  a  fire  of 
indignation  over  the  stranger's  inquiry  and  at 
the  uncomfortable  position  in  which  his  wife 
had  placed  him,  owing  to  her  never  consult 
ing  him  about  her  guests  or  her  correspond 
ence,  shut  the  door  of  the  drawing-room  so 
the  servants  could  not  hear  and  burst  out 
with: 

"  'What  damned  nonsense  it  is,  Catherine, 
to  invite  people  who  bore  you  to  death  with 
questions  you  can't  answer!  Who  the  devil 
is  Eliza,  and  what's  the  matter  with  her?' 

"  'Who  wanted  to  know,  my  dear?' 

"  'That  horribly  dressed,  red-faced  per 
son  who  sat  halfway  down  the  table,  next 
to  that  frightful  frump  in  a  turban  from 
Persia.' 

"  'I  don't  know  any  Eliza!' 

"  'But  you  said  you  did.' 

'"I  said  I  did?' 

"'Yes;  he  told  me  so.     You  wrote  him! 

[  24?  ] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

Now  be  good  enough,   Catherine,  to  let  me 

know  in  advance  who  you ' 

'  'But  I  never  told  anybody  about  Eliza; 
never  heard  of  her.' 

"  'You  did,  I  tell  you.  You  told  that  fel 
low  who  winks  all  the  time,  with  some  beastly 
thing  the  matter  with  his  eyes.' 

'You  mean  Sir  John  Catnall?  The  man 
who  came  in  just  as  we  were  going  in  to  din 
ner?  That  is,  I  suppose  it  was  he.  Barton 
told  me  we  were  waiting  for  him.' 

'Yes;  the  fellow  said  he  was  late.' 
"  'And   he   told   you — '      Here    the    door 
opened  and  the  butler  entered  for  her  Lady 
ship's  orders  for  the  night. 

'  'Barton,  whom  did  you  announce  last?' 
'  'I  didn't  catch  the  name,  your  Ladyship, 
quite.' 

;  'Was    it    Sir    John    Catnall    and    Lady 
Catnall?' 

'  'No,    your    Ladyship.      Something   that 
began  with  P.' 

[248] 


SOME  MYSTERIOUS  CHARACTERS 

"  'Are  you  sure  it  was  not  "Catnall"?' 

"  'Quite  sure,  your  Ladyship.  Sir  John's 
man  was  here  just  after  dinner  was  announced 
and  left  a  message,  your  Ladyship — I  forgot 
to  give  it  to  you.  He  said  Sir  John  had  been 
out  of  town,  and  had  that  moment  received 
your  Ladyship's  note,  and  that  it  was  impos 
sible  for  him  to  come  to  dinner.  I  supposed 
your  Ladyship  had  known  of  it  and  had  in 
vited  the  gentleman  and  his  lady  who  came 
last  to  take  their  places,  and  I  put  them  in 
Sir  John's  and  Lady  Catnall's  seats  as  it  was 
marked  on  the  diagram  you  gave  Chawles.' 

"  'Just  as  I  supposed,  Catherine,'  snorted 
Arbuckle,  'a  couple  of  damned  impostors; 
one  passing  himself  off  as  a  blind  man. 
Serves  you  right.  They've  carried  off  half 
the  plate  by  this  time.  Bingeley  lost  all  of 
his  spoons  and  forks  that  way  last  week;  he 
told  me  so  in  the  House  yesterday.' 

"'Impostors!  You  don't  think —  Bar 
ton,  go  down  instantly  and  see  if  anything 
[  249] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

has  been  taken  out  of  the  cloak-room.  And, 
Barton,  see  if  that  miniature  with  the  jewels 
around  the  frame  is  where  I  left  it  on  the 
mantel — and  the  candlesticks —  Oh  !  you 
don't  think —  It  can't  be —  Oh,  dear — 
dear — dear!' 

"Again  the  door  opened  and  Barton  ap 
peared. 

"  'The  candlesticks  are  all  right,  your 
Ladyship ;  but  the  miniature  is  gone.  I 
looked  everywhere.  Chawles  said  it  was 
taken  to  your  room  by  the  maid.' 

"  'Ring  for  Prodgers  at  once.' 

"  'I  have,  your  Ladyship.  Here  she  comes 
with  it  in  her  hand,'  and  he  handed  the  jew 
eled  frame  to  his  mistress. 

"  'Oh,  I'm  so  thankful!  You're  sure  noth 
ing  else  is  missing?' 

"  'No,  your  Ladyship;  but  Chawles  found 
this  note  on  the  mantel,  which  he  says 
he  picked  up  from  the  table  after  they  had 
left.' 

[  250] 


"Lord  Arbuckle  craned  his  head  and  his 
wife  eagerly  scanned  the  inscription. 

"On  the  envelope,  scrawled  in  pencil,  were 
the  three  words:  'For  dear  Eliza.' 

"Lady  Arbuckle  broke  the  seal. 

"Out  dropped  two  twenty-pound  Bank  of 
England  notes." 

The  Irishman  rose  to  his  feet,  pushed  back 
his  chair,  and  taking  a  briarwood  from  his 
pocket  and  a  small  bag  of  tobacco  proceeded 
to  fill  his  pipe. 

Mac  broke  the  silence  first: 

"Case  of  wrong  house,  wasn't  it?  I  won 
der  Catnall  didn't  find  it  out  before  dinner 
was  over." 

"Put  Arbuckle  in  a  bad  hole,"  remarked 
Boggs.  "What  excuse  could  he  make  when 
he  returned  the  money?" 

"I'd  have  given  that  butler  a  dressing 
down,"  muttered  Lonnegan.  "He  ought  to 
have  known  that  there  was  some  mistake 
[251  ] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

when  the  note  arrived."  Lonnegan  like  Mac 
was  born  without  the  slightest  sense  of  hu 
mor,  Boggs  always  maintained. 

"Keep  on  guessing,  gentlemen,"  exclaimed 
Murphy;  "London  guessed  for  a  week,  and 
gave  it  up." 

"Well,  but  is  that  all?"  asked  Stirling. 

"Every  word  and  line.  Nobody  knows  to 
this  day  who  they  were  or  where  they  came 
from.  The  flunkey  on  the  curb  said  they 
arrived  in  a  four-wheeler;  that  he  had  whis 
tled  to  the  rank  at  the  end  of  the  square  for 
a  hansom,  and  that  they  both  stepped  in  and 
drove  off." 

"And  old  Arbuckle  still  bags  the  money?" 
inquired  Boggs. 

"Did,  the  last  I  heard." 

"Did  he  try  to  find  out  who  the  fellow 
was?" 

"No,  Lady  Arbuckle  wouldn't  let  him;  it 
would  have  given  the  whole  thing  away. 
Besides,  it  was  Arbuckle's  statement  about 
[252] 


SOME    MYSTERIOUS    CHARACTERS 

Eliza  that  made  the  stranger  give  the  money; 
rather  a  delicate  situation;  looked  as  if  he 
and  his  wife  had  put  up  a  job." 

"Poor  devil!"  muttered  Mac.  "Lied  to 
his  guest,  insulted  his  wife,  and  robbed  some 
poor  woman  of  a  charity  that  might  have 
restored  her  to  health,  and  all  because  of  just 
the  same  kind  of  idiotic  foolishness  that  is 
going  on  downstairs  at  Woods's  this  very 
minute.  Damnable,  the  whole  thing." 

"I  know  of  a  case,"  said  Lonnegan  with 
out  noticing  Mac's  outburst,  as  he  reached  for 
his  pipe  which  he  had  laid  on  the  mantel, 
"in  which  not  a  mysterious  couple  but  a  mys 
terious  woman  figured,  and  I  know  the  man 
who  was  mixed  up  in  the  affair.  He's  a  civil 
engineer  now  and  lives  in  London;  got  quite 
a  position.  When  I  first  met  him  he  was  a 
draughtsman  in  one  of  the  downtown  offices 
— this  was  some  fifteen  years  ago.  He  was 
a  good-looking  fellow  then,  about  twenty- 
seven  or  eight,  I  should  say,  with  a  smooth- 
[  253  ] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

shaven  face  and  features  like  a  girl's,  they 
were  so  regular;  a  handsome  chap,  really,  if 
he  was  about  up  to  your  shoulders,  Mac." 

"What  sort  of  a  yarn  is  this,  Lonny?"  in 
terrupted  Boggs.  "Got  any  point  to  it,  or  is 
it  one  of  your  long-winded  things  like  the  one 
you  told  us  when  you  weren't  murdered?" 

"It's  one  that  will  make  your  hair  stand 
on  end,"  retorted  the  architect.  "Wonder  I 
never  told  you  before !" 

"Go  on,  Lonny,"  broke  in  Jack  Stirling. 
"Dry  up,  Boggs.  He  was  a  good-looking 
chap,  you  said,  Lonny,  and  about  up  to  Mac's 
shoulders." 

"Yes,  and  half  the  size  of  Boggs  around 
his  waist,"  continued  Lonnegan,  with  a  look 
at  MacWhirter. 

"The  firm  he  was  with  sent  him  to  Vienna 
with  some  plans  and  specifications  of  a  big 
enterprise  in  which  they  were  interested.  He 
arrived  in  the  evening,  hungry,  and  late  for 
dinner;  left  his  trunk  at  the  station,  jumped 
[254] 


SOME  MYSTERIOUS  CHARACTERS 

into  a  fiacre  and  drove  to  a  cafe  on  the  Ring 
Strasse  that  he  knew.  After  dining  he  made 
up  his  mind  to  go  back  to  the  station,  pick 
up  his  baggage,  and  find  rooms  at  the  Metro- 
pole.  When  he  entered  the  cafe  and  took  a 
seat  near  the  door  a  woman  at  the  next  table 
turned  her  head  and  fastened  her  eyes  upon 
him  in  a  way  that  attracted  his  attention.  He 
saw  that  she  was  of  rather  distinguished  pres 
ence,  tall  and  well  formed,  broad  shoulders 
— square  for  a  woman — and  with  a  strong 
nose  and  chin.  She  was  dressed  all  in  black, 
her  veil  almost  hiding  her  face.  Not  a  hand 
some  woman  and  not  young — certainly  not 
under  thirty. 

"With  the  serving  of  the  soup  he  forgot 
her  and  went  on  with  his  dinner.  That  over 
he  paid  the  waiter,  strolled  out  to  the  street 
and  called  a  cab.  When  it  drove  up  the 
veiled  woman  stood  beside  him. 

"  'I  think  this  cab  is  mine,  sir,'  she  said  in 
excellent  English. 

[255] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

"The  Engineer  raised  his  hat,  offered  his 
hand  to  the  woman  and  assisted  her  into  her 
seat.  When  he  withdrew  his  fingers  they 
held  a  small  card  edged  with  black.  The 
woman  and  the  cab  disappeared.  He  turned 
the  card  to  the  light  of  the  street  lamp.  On 
it  was  written  in  pencil,  'Meet  me  at  Cafe 
Ivanoff  at  ten  to-night.  You  are  in  danger.' 

"The  man  read  the  card  and  strained  his 
eyes  after  the  cab;  then  he  called  another, 
drove  down  to  the  station,  picked  up 
his  trunk,  and  started  for  the  Hotel  Metro- 
pole. 

"On  the  way  to  the  hotel  he  kept  thinking 
of  the  woman  and  the  card.  It  had  not  been 
the  first  time  that  his  fresh  cheeks  and  clean- 
cut  features  had  attracted  the  attention  of 
some  woman  dining  alone — especially  in  a 
city  like  Vienna ;  any  continental  city,  in  fact. 
Some  of  these  adventures  he  had  followed  up 
with  varying  success;  some  he  had  forgotten. 
This  one  interested  him.  The  proffered  ac- 
[256] 


SOME  MYSTERIOUS  CHARACTERS 

quaintance  had  been  cleverly  managed.  The 
warning  at  the  end  was,  he  knew,  one  of 
the  many  ruses  to  pique  his  curiosity; 
but  that  did  not  put  the  woman  out  of  his 
mind. 

"When  his  baggage  had  been  deposited 
in  his  rooms,  a  small  salon,  bedroom,  and 
dressing-room,  all  opening  on  the  corridor — 
he  needed  the  salon  in  which  to  lay  out  his 
plans  and  maps — he  gave  his  hat  an  extra 
brush,  strolled  downstairs,  and  stepped  to  the 
porter's  desk. 

"  'Porter.' 

"  'Yes,  sir.' 

"  'Where  is  the  Cafe  Ivanoff  ?' 

"  'Near  the  Opera,  sir.' 

"  'Is  it  a  respectable  place?' 

"  'That  depends  on  what  your  Excel 
lency  requires,'  and  the  porter  shrugged  his 
shoulders. 

"  'It  sounds  Russian.' 

"  'No,  sir;  it  is  Polish.     You  have  music 

[2571 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

and     vodka,      and     sometimes     you     have 
trouble.' 

'"With  whom?' 

"Again  the  porter  shrugged  his  shoulders. 
'With  the  police.' 

"  'Are  there  rows?' 

"  'No,  there  are  refugees.  Vienna  is  full 
of  them.  For  you  it  is  nothing — you  are  an 
American — am  I  not  right?' 

"The  Engineer  touched  his  inside  pocket, 
felt  the  bulge  of  his  pocketbook  containing 
his  passport,  turned  down  the  Ring  Strasse, 
and  stopped  at  the  Opera  House.  Then  he 
began  to  look  about  him.  Young,  well-built, 
clear-headed,  and  imaginative,  this  sort  of  an 
adventure  was  just  what  he  wanted.  Soon 
his  eyes  fell  upon  a  cafe  ablaze  with  light. 
On  a  ground-glass  globe  over  the  door  was 
the  word  'Ivanoff.' 

"He    passed    through    the    front    room, 
turned  into  another,   and  was  stopped  by  a 
man  at  the  door  of  the  third. 
[258] 


SOME  MYSTERIOUS  CHARACTERS 

"  'What  do  you  want,  Monsieur?'  This 
in  French. 

"  'Some  cognac  and  a  cup  of  coffee.' 

"  'Did  Monsieur  come  in  a  cab?' 

44  4No,  on  foot.' 

44  Terhaps,  then,  the  lady  came  in  a  cab — 
and  is  waiting  for  you?' 

44  'Perhaps.' 

44  4This  way,  Monsieur.' 

"She  sat  in  the  far  corner  of  the  room, 
her  face  hidden  in  a  file  of  newspapers.  She 
must  have  known  the  attendant's  step  for  she 
raised  her  head  and  fastened  her  eyes  on  the 
young  man  before  he  was  halfway  across 
the  room. 

"  'Sit  here,  sir,'  she  said  in  perfect  Eng 
lish,  drawing  her  dress  aside  so  that  he  could 
pass  to  the  chair  next  the  wall.  'I  am  glad 
you  came;  I  am  glad  you  trusted  me  enough 
to  come.'  Her  manner  was  as  composed  and 
her  voice  as  low  and  gentle  and  as  free  from 
nervousness  as  if  she  had  known  him  all  her 
[  259] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

life.  'And  now,  before  I  tell  you  what  I 
have  to  say  to  you,  please  tell  me  something 
about  yourself.  You  are  an  American  and 
have  just  arrived  in  Vienna?' 

"The  Engineer  nodded,  his  eyes  still  scan 
ning  her  face,  keeping  his  own  composure  as 
best  he  could,  his  astonishment  increasing 
every  moment.  He  had  seen  at  the  first 
glance  that  she  was  not  the  woman  he  had 
taken  her  to  be.  Her  face,  on  closer  inspec 
tion,  showed  her  to  be  nearer  forty  than 
thirty,  with  certain  lines  about  the  mouth  and 
eyes  which  could  only  have  come  from  suf 
fering.  What  she  wanted  of  him,  or  why 
she  had  interested  herself  in  his  welfare,  was 
what  puzzled  him. 

"  'You  have  a  mother,  perhaps,  at  home, 
and  some  brothers,  and  you  love  them,'  she 
continued. 

"Again  the  Engineer  nodded. 

"  'How  many  brothers  have  you  ?' 

"  'One,  Madame.' 

[  260  ] 


SOME  MYSTERIOUS  CHARACTERS 

"  'That  is  another  bond  of  sympathy  be 
tween  us.  I  have  one  brother  left.'  All  this 
time  her  eyes  had  been  riveted  on  his,  bor 
ing  into  his  own  as  if  she  was  trying  to  read 
his  very  thoughts. 

"'Is  he  in  danger  like  me,  Madame?' 
asked  the  Engineer  with  a  smile. 

"  'Yes,  we  all  are;  we  live  in  danger.  I 
have  been  brought  up  in  it.' 

"  'But  why  should  I  be?'  and  he  handed 
her  the  card  with  the  black  edge. 

"  'You  are  not,'  she  said,  crumpling  the 
card  in  her  hand  and  slipping  it  into  her 
dress.  'It  was  only  a  very  cheap  ruse  of 
mine.  I  saw  you  at  the  next  table  and  knew 
your  nationality  at  once.  You  can  help  me, 
if  you  will,  and  you  are  the  only  one  who  can. 
You  seemed  to  be  sent  to  me.  I  thought  it 
all  out  and  determined  what  to  do.  You  see 
how  calm  I  am,  and  yet  my  hands  have  been 
icy  cold  waiting  for  you.  I  dared  not  hope 
you  would  really  come  until  I  saw  you  enter 
[261] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

and  speak  to  Polski.  But  you  cannot  stay 
here;  you  may  be  seen  and  I  do  not  want 
you  to  be  seen — not  now.  We  Poles  are 
watched  night  and  day;  someone  may  come 
in  and  you  might  have  to  tell  who  you 
are,  and  that  must  not  be.'  Then  she 
added  cautiously,  her  eyes  fastened  on  his, 
'Your  passport — you  have  one,  have  you 
not?' 

"  'Yes,  for  all  over  Europe.' 

"  'Oh,  yes;  of  course.'  This  came  with  a 
sigh  of  relief,  as  if  she  had  dreaded  another 
answer.  'That  is  the  right  way  to  travel 
while  this  revolution  goes  on.  Yes,  yes;  a 
passport  is  quite  necessary.  Now  give  me 
your  address.  Metropole?  Which  room? 
Number  thirty-nine?  Very  well;  I'll  be  there 
at  eight  o'clock  to-morrow  night.  Never 
mind  the  coffee,  I  will  pay  for  it  with  mine. 
Go — now — out  the  other  door;  not  the  one 
you  came  in.  There  is  somebody  coming — 
quick!' 

[  262  ] 


SOME  MYSTERIOUS  CHARACTERS 

"The  tone  of  her  voice  and  the  look  in  her 
eye  lifted  him  out  of  his  seat  and  started  him 
toward  the  door  without  another  word.  She 
was  evidently  accustomed  to  be  obeyed. 

"The  next  night  at  eight  precisely  there 
came  a  rap  at  his  door  and  a  woman  wrapped 
in  a  coarse  shawl,  and  with  a  basket  covered 
with  a  cloth  on  her  arm,  stood  outside. 

"  'I  have  brought  Monsieur's  laundry,'  she 
said.  'Shall  I  lay  it  in  the  bedroom  or  here 
in  the  salon?'  and  she  stepped  inside. 

"The  door  shut,  she  laid  the  empty 
basket  on  the  floor  and  threw  back  her 
shawl. 

"  'Don't  be  worried,'  she  said,  turning  the 
key  in  the  lock,  'and  don't  ask  any  questions. 
I  will  go  as  I  came.  Someone  might  have 
stopped  me.  I  got  this  basket  and  shawl 
from  my  own  laundress.  There  will  be  no 
one  here?  You  are  sure?  Then  let  me  sit 
beside  you  and  tell  you  what  I  could  not  last 
night. 

[263] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

'  'Our  people  go  to  that  cafe,'  she  con 
tinued,  as  she  led  him  to  the  sofa,  'because, 
strange  to  say,  the  police  think  none  of  us 
would  dare  go  there.  That  makes  it  the 
safest.  Besides,  every  one  of  the  servants  is 
our  friend.' 

"Then  she  unfolded  a  yarn  that  made  his 
hair  stand  on  end.  She  had  been  banished 
from  a  little  town  in  central  Poland  where 
she  had  taken  part  in  the  revolution.  Two 
brothers  had  died  in  exile,  the  other  was  in 
hiding  in  Vienna.  It  was  absolutely  neces 
sary  that  this  remaining  brother  should  get 
back  to  Warsaw.  Not  only  her  own  life 
depended  on  it  but  the  lives  of  their  com 
patriots.  Some  papers  which  had  been  hid 
den  were  in  danger  of  being  discovered;  these 
must  be  found  and  destroyed.  Her  brother 
was  now  on  his  way  to  the  hotel  and  the  room 
in  which  they  then  sat;  he  would  join  them 
in  an  hour.  At  nine  o'clock  he  would  send 
his  card  up  and  must  be  received.  His  name 
[264] 


SOME    MYSTERIOUS    CHARACTERS 

was  Matzoff — her  own  name  before  she  was 
married.  Would  he  lend  him  his  clothes  and 
his  passport?  She  could  not  ask  this  of  any 
one  but  an  American;  when  she  saw  him  and 
looked  into  his  face  she  knew  God  had  sent 
him  to  her.  Only  Americans  sympathized 
with  her  poor  country.  The  passport  would 
be  handed  back  to  him  in  three  days  by  the 
same  man — Polski — who  conducted  him  to 
her  table  at  the  Cafe  Ivanoff ;  so  would 
the  clothes.  He  would  not  need  either 
in  that  time.  Would  he  save  her  and  her 
people?' 

"Well;  you  can  imagine  what  happened. 
Like  many  other  young  fellows,  carried  off 
his  feet  by  the  picturesqueness  of  the  whole 
affair — the  appeal  to  his  patriotism,  to  his 
love  of  justice,  to  all  the  things  that  count 
when  you  are  twenty-five  and  have  the  world 
in  a  sling — he  consented.  It  was  agreed  that 
she  was  to  wait  in  the  dressing-room,  which 
also  opened  on  the  corridor,  and  show  her- 
[265] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

self  to  the  brother,  and  get  him  safely  inside 
the  dressing-room.  The  Engineer  was  not  to 
see  him  come.  If  anything  went  wrong  it 
was  best  that  he  could  not  identify  him.  She 
would  then  help  him  dress — he  was  about  the 
same  build  as  the  Engineer  and  could  easily 
wear  his  clothes.  Moreover,  he  was  dark 
like  the  Engineer;  black  hair  and  black  eyes 
and  just  his  age.  Indeed  one  reason  she 
picked  him  out  at  the  cafe  on  the  Ring  Strasse 
was  because  he  looked  so  much  like  her  own 
brother. 

"The  two  began  to  get  ready  for  the  ex 
pected  arrival — a  shirt  and  collar,  tie,  gloves, 
travelling  suit,  overcoat,  and  the  Engineer's 
bag  with  his  initials  on  it  were  laid  out  in 
the  dressing-room,  together  with  an  umbrella 
and  walking-stick  and  the  passport.  He 
was  to  walk  down  the  corridor  and  out 
of  the  hotel  precisely  as  the  young  Engineer 
would  walk  out.  If  he  could  only  see  her 
brother  he  would  know  how  complete  the  dis- 
[  266] 


SOME  MYSTERIOUS  CHARACTERS 

guise  would  be;  just  his  size — her  own,  really 
— her  brother  being  small  for  a  man  and  she 
being  tall  and  broad  for  a  woman. 

"At  nine  o'clock  she  put  her  head  out  of 
the  dressing-room  door,  laid  her  fingers  on 
her  lips,  pushed  the  Engineer  into  the  salon 
and  locked  the  door.  The  brother  evidently 
was  approaching.  Next  he  heard  the  dress 
ing-room  door  click.  Then  the  sound  of  a 
man  rapidly  changing  his  clothes  could  be 
heard.  Then  a  soft  click  of  the  latch  and  a 
heavy  step. 

"Here  his  curiosity  overcame  him  and  he 
cautiously  opened  the  salon  door  and  peered 
down  the  corridor.  A  man  carrying  his  bag, 
cane,  and  umbrella,  an  overcoat  on  his  arm, 
was  walking  rapidly  toward  the  staircase. 
He  drew  in  his  head  and  waited.  Five  min 
utes  passed,  then  ten.  He  tried  the  dressing- 
room  door.  It  was  still  locked.  Stepping 
out  into  the  corridor  he  turned  the  knob  and 
walked  into  the  dressing-room.  It  was  empty. 
[267] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

On  the  floor  was  a  pair  of  corsets,  some  petti 
coats,  and  a  dress!" 

"Skipped!  Well,  by  Jove!"  cried  Marny. 
"Nihilist,  wasn't  she?" 

"He  never  knew;  doesn't  to  this  day." 

"What  was  she  then?"  persisted  Marny. 

"I  don't  know.  My  only  solution  was  that 
she  was  herself  in  danger  of  her  life  and  had 
cooked  up  the  yarn  about  her  brother  to  get 
out  of  Vienna." 

"Did  he  get  his  passport  back?"  asked 
Stirling. 

"Yes,  three  months  afterward  by  mail  to 
his  bankers  from  the  Hotel  Metropole.  She, 
or  somebody  else,  had  been  half  over  Eu 
rope  with  it;  twice  to  St.  Petersburg  and 
once  to  Warsaw.  The  clothes  and  bag  he 
never  heard  of.  The  waiter  at  the  Cafe 
Ivanoff — the  one  she  called  Polski — had 
disappeared  and  he  dare  not  make  any  in 
quiries." 

[268] 


Pushed  the  engineer  into  the  salon. 


SOME  MYSTERIOUS  CHARACTERS 

"But  I  don't  see  why  he  was  afraid,  an 
American  like  him,"  broke  in  Marny. 

"Let  up,  Marny!"  exclaimed  Boggs. 
"Don't  spoil  a  good  yarn.  What  difference 
does  it  make  who  she  was?  You've  got  a 
first  rate  doll,  don't  pick  it  to  pieces  to  find 
out  what  it's  stuffed  with;  give  your  imag 
ination  play  and  enjoy  it.  She  suggests  a 
dozen  things  to  me,  but  I  don't  want  any  one 
of  them  proved.  She  might  have  been  chief 
of  a  band  of  poisoners  with  a  private  grave 
yard  in  her  cellar;  her  smile,  perdition;  her 
glance,  death.  She  could  also  have  eluded 
the  Secret  Service  of  Russia  for  years  in  dis 
guises  that  the  mother  who  bore  her  wouldn't 
have  known  her  in; — her  exploits  the  talk 
of  all  Europe.  Then  her  miraculous  escapes 
— one  for  instance  across  the  frontier  in  a 
sledge  on  forged  passports,  and  the  dis 
guise  of  an  officer,  her  maid  dressed  as 
an  orderly,  both  of  them  smothered  in  price 
less  furs;  her  being  trailed  to  her  hotel  by 
[269] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

a  sleuth;  her  lightning  change  of  costume  to 
low-neck  gown  and  jewels  given  her  by  a  Rus 
sian  Grand  Duke  whose  body  was  found  in 
the  Neva  the  morning  after  she  left;  the  mur 
der  of  the  sleuth,  with  a  card  tied  to  the 
stiletto  marked  with  a  skull  and  crossbones. 
You  fellows  are  going  wild  over  this  new 
French  impressionistic  craze — the  vague,  the 
mysterious,  and  the  suggestive.  Why  not 
apply  it  to  literature?  If  a  man  can  paint  a 
figure  with  three  dabs  of  his  brush,  why  can't 
a  man  draw  a  character  or  a  situation  with 
three  strokes  of  his  pen?  You  are  too  literal, 
old  man!" 

"Anything  else,  you  overstuffed,  loquacious 
sausage?"  cried  Marny. 

"Yes,"  retorted  Boggs.  "That  woman 
was  no  doubt  a  member  of  the " 

"Stop,  you  beggar!"   cried  Jack  Stirling. 

"Don't    let    him    get    loose    again,    Marny! 

Stuff  a  pipe  in  his  mouth.     Boggs,  you  are 

the  only  man  I  know  who  can  start  his  mouth 

[  270] 


SOME  MYSTERIOUS  CHARACTERS 

going  and  go  away  and  leave  it.  Here,  fel 
lows,  get  on  your  feet  and  line  up  and  receive 
the  spoilt  child  of  fashion.  He's  coming  up 
stairs  :  I  know  his  step." 

At  this  instant  Woods's  body  was  thrust 
around  the  jamb  of  the  door.  He  still  wore 
the  rose  in  his  button-hole,  the  one  Miss  B.  J. 
— the  original  of  the  portrait — had  pinned 
there. 

Mac  sprang  up  and  caught  the  intruder  by 
the  shoulders  before  he  had  time  to  open  his 
mouth. 

"Been  having  a  tea,  have  you,  you  gilt- 
edged  fraud!  A  highly  perfumed  powder- 
puff  tea,  with  lace  on  the  edges  and  two 
flounces.  'Oh,  how  exquisite,  dear  Mr. 
Woods!  And  is  it  really  all  hand-painted? 
and  did  you  do  it  all  yourself?  How  enor 
mously  clever  you  are —  How  lovely — 
How — '  Got  pretty  sick  of  that  sort  of  taffy 
after  they  had  gormed  you  up  with  it  for 
three  hours,  didn't  you,  Woods?  and  you 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

had  to  come  up  where  you  could  breathe! 
Now  rip  off  that  undertaker's  coat,  throw 
away  that  rose,  get  into  that  sketching  jacket, 
and  sit  down  here  and  disinfect  yourself  with 
a  pipe —  and  Mac's  hearty  laugh  rang 
through  the  room. 


[  272  ] 


PART    IX 

Around  the  Embers  of  the  Dying  Fire. 

SPRING  had  come.  The  trees  in  the 
old  Square  were  tuneful  with  impatient 
birds  ready  to  move  in  and  begin  housekeep 
ing  as  soon  as  the  buds  poked  their  yellow 
heads  out  of  their  nestings  of  bark.  The 
eager  sun,  who  had  been  trying  all  winter  to 
gain  the  corner  of  Mac's  studio  window,  had 
finally  carried  the  sash  and  grimy  pane  by 
assault:  its  beams  were  now  basking  on 
the  Daghestan  rug  in  full  defiance  of  the 
smouldering  coals  crouching  half-dead  in 
their  bed  of  ashes. 

From  an  open  window — Mac  had  thrown 
it  wide — came  a  breath  of  summer  air,  tell 
ing  of  green  fields  and  fleecy  clouds;  of  lap 
pings  about  the  bows  of  canoes:  of  balsam 
beds  under  bark  slants;  of  white  scoured 

[273] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

decks  and  dancing  waves;  of  queer  cafes 
under  cool  arched  trees  and  snowy  peaks 
against  the  blue. 

The  glorious  old  fire  felt  the  sun's  power 
and  shuddered,  trembling  with  an  ill-defined 
fear.  It  knew  its  days  were  numbered,  per 
haps  its  hours.  No  more  romping  and  sky 
larking;  no  more  outbursts  of  crackling 
laughter;  no  more  scurrying  up  the  ghostly 
chimney,  the  madcap  sparks  playing  hide-and- 
seek  in  the  soot;  no  more  hugging  close  of 
the  old  logs,  warming  themselves  and  every 
body  about  them;  no  more  jolly  nights  with 
the  hearth  swept  and  the  pipes  lighted,  the 
faces  of  the  smokers  aglow  with  the  radiance 
of  the  cheery  blaze. 

Its  old  enemy,  the  cold,  had  given  up  the 
fight  and  had  crept  away  to  hide  in  the 
North;  so  had  the  snow  and  the  icy  winds. 
No  more !  No  more !  Spring  had  come. 
Summer  was  already  calling.  Now  for  big 
bowls  of  blossoms,  their  fragrance  mingling 
[274] 


Around  the  embers  uf  (lie  ilyin.c  lire. 


AROUND    THE    DYING    EMBERS 

with  the  pungent  odor  of  slanting  lines  of 
smoke.  Now  for  half-closed  blinds,  through 
which  sunbeams  peeped  and  restless  insects 
buzzed  in  and  out.  Now  for  long  after 
noons,  soft  twilights,  and  wide-open  windows, 
their  sashes  framing  the  stars. 

Mac  had  noted  the  signs  and  was  getting 
ready  for  the  change.  Already  had  he 
opened  his  dust-covered  trunk  and  had  hauled 
out,  from  a  collection  of  tramping  shoes,  old 
straw  hats,  and  summer  clothes,  a  thin  paint 
ing  coat  in  place  of  his  pet  velveteen  jacket. 
It  was  only  at  night  that  he  raked  out  the 
coals  hiding  their  faces  in  the  ashes,  gathered 
them  together — the  fire  had  never  gone  out 
since  the  day  he  lighted  it — and  encouraged 
them  with  a  comforting  log. 

Most  of  the  members  had  formed  their 
plans  for  the  summer;  one  or  two  had  al 
ready  bidden  good-by  to  the  Circle.  Lon- 
negan  was  off  trout-fishing,  and  Jack  Stirling 
was  three  days  out — off  the  Banks  really. 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

"Gone  to  look  up  Christine  and  the  old 
boys  and  girls,"  Marny  said;  at  which  Mac 
shook  his  head,  knowing  the  bee,  and  know 
ing  also  the  kinds  and  varieties  of  flowers 
which  grew  in  the  gardens  most  frequented 
by  that  happy-go-lucky  fellow. 

Murphy  was  back  in  London;  cabled  for, 
and  left  without  being  able  to  bid  anybody 
good-by'.  "Throw  on  another  stick,"  he  had 
written  Mac  by  the  pilot-boat,  "and  give  the 
dear  old  logs  a  friendly  punch  and  tell  'em 
it  is  from  that  wild  Irishman,  Murphy.  I'd 
give  you  a  tract  of  woodland  if  I  had  one, 
and  build  you  a  fireplace  as  big  as  the  nave 
of  a  church.  I  shall  never  forget  my  after 
noons  around  your  fire,  MacWhirter.  You 
and  your  back-logs  and  the  dear  boys  warmed 
me  clear  through  to  my  heart.  Keep  my 
chair  dusted,  I'm  coming  back  if  I  live." 

With  the  budding  trees  and  soft  air  and 
all  the  delights  of  the  out-of-doors,  the  at 
tendance  even  of  those  members  who  still 
[276] 


AROUND    THE    DYING    EMBERS 

remained  in  town  began  to  drop  off.  Only 
when  a  raw,  chill  wind  blew  from  the  east, 
reminding  us  of  the  winter  and  the  welcome 
of  Mac's  fire,  would  the  chairs  about  the 
hearth  be  filled.  Boggs,  Pitkin,  Woods, 
Marny,  and  I  were  the  only  ones  who  came 
with  any  regularity. 

"Got  to  cover  them  up,  Colonel,"  Mac  said 
to  me  the  last  afternoon  the  fire  was  alight. 
I  had  arrived  ahead  of  the  others  and  had 
found  him  crooning  over  the  smouldering 
logs,  looking  into  the  embers.  "They've  been 
mighty  good  to  us  all  winter — never  sulked, 
never  backed  out;  start  them  going  and  give 
them  a  pat  or  two  on  their  backs  and  away 
they  went."  He  spoke  as  if  the  logs  were 
alive.  "Lots  of  comfort  we've  had  out  of 
them ;  going  to  have  a  lot  more  next  year, 
too.  I  shall  bury  the  embers  of  the  last  fire 
— perhaps  this  one,  I  can't  tell — in  its  ashes 
and  keep  the  whole  till  we  start  them  up  in 
the  autumn.  It  will  seem  then  like  the  same 

[  277  ] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

old  fire.  The  flowers  lie  dead  all  winter  but 
they  bloom  from  the  same  old  charred  ember 
of  a  root.  All  the  root  needs  is  the  sun  and 
all  the  coals  need  is  warmth.  And  the  two 
never  bloom  in  the  same  season — that's  the 
best  part  of  it." 

He  had  not  once  looked  at  me  as  he  spoke; 
he  knew  me  by  my  tread,  and  he  knew  my 
voice,  but  his  eyes  had  not  once  turned  my 
way,  not  even  when  I  took  the  chair  beside 
him. 

"And  what  are  you  going  to  do,  Mac,  all 
summer?  Got  any  plans?" 

"Got  plenty  of  plans,  but  no  money. 
Heard  there  was  a  man  nibbling  around  my 
'East  River' — but  you  can't  tell.  Brown,  the 
salesman,  says  it's  as  good  as  sold,  but  I've 
heard  Brown  say  those  things  before.  Ex 
hibition  closes  this  week.  Guess  the  distin 
guished  connoisseur,  Mr.  A.  MacWhirter, 
will  add  that  picture  to  his  collection:  that 
closet  behind  us  is  full  of  'em." 
[278] 


AROUND    THE    DYING    EMBERS 

"Where  would  you  like  to  go,  old  man?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,  Colonel.  I'd  like  to 
try  Holland  once  more  and  get  some  new 
skies — and  boats." 

"Nothing  on  this  side,  Mac?"  I  was  not 
probing  for  subjects  for  Mac's  brush. 

"No,  don't  seem  so.  Can't  sell  them  any 
how.  I  thought  my  'East  River'  was  about 
the  best  I  had  done,  but  nobody  wants  it. 
Cook  calls  it  a  'Melancholy  Monochrome,' 
and  that  other  critic — I  forget  his  name — 
says  it  lacks  'spontaneity,'  whatever  that  is. 
I  ought  to  have  stayed  at  home  and  helped 
my  Governor  instead  of  roaming  round  the 
world  deluding  myself  with  the  idea  that  I 
could  paint.  About  everything  I've  tried  has 
failed:  Had  to  borrow  the  money  to  get  me 
to  Munich;  took  me  three  years  to  pay  it 
back,  doing  pot-boilers;  even  painted  signs 
one  time.  Been  chasing  these  phantoms  now 
for  a  good  many  years,  but  I  haven't  got 
anywhere.  I'd  rather  paint  than  eat,  but  I've 
[  279  ] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

got  to  eat — that's  the  worst  of  it.  A  little 
encouragement,  too,  would  help.  I  try  not  to 
mind  what  Cook  says  about  my  things,  but 
it  hurts  all  the  same.  And  yet  if  he  ever  over 
praised  my  work  it  would  be  just  as  offensive. 
What  I  want  is  somebody  to  come  along  and 
get  underneath  the  paint  and  find  something 
of  myself  and  what  I  am  trying  to  do  with 
my  brush.  It  may  be  monotonous  to  Cook;  it 
isn't  to  me.  I  could  crisp  up  my  'East  River' 
with  a  lot  of  cheap  color  and  a  boat  or 
two  with  figures  in  the  foreground,  but  it  was 
that  vast  silence  of  the  morning  that  I  was 
after,  and  the  silvering  quality  of  the  dawn. 
Doesn't  everybody  see  that?  some  of  them 
can't.  Well,  in  she  goes  with  the  rest;  you'll 
all  have  a  fine  bonfire  when  I'm  gone.  I'll 
keep  out  the  one  hanging  over  the  lounge  and 
maybe  another  back  somewhere  in  that  mau 
soleum  of  a  closet.  I'll  give  one  to  you,  old 
man,  if  you'll  promise  to  take  care  of  it," 
and  Mac  took  an  unframed  canvas  from  the 
[280] 


AROUND    THE    DYING    EMBERS 

wall  and  propped  it  up  on  a  chair.  There 
were  dozens  of  others  around  it  and  so  it  had 
never  attracted  my  attention. 

"Not  much — just  a  garden  wall  and  a 
bench — pretty  black — too  much  bitumen,  I 
guess,"  and  he  wet  his  finger  and  rubbed  the 
canvas. 

I  took  the  sketch  in  my  hand  and  examined 
it  carefully.  It  was  dated  "Lucerne,"  and 
signed  with  two  initials,  not  Mac's. 

"Old  sketch?" 

"Yes,  about  fifteen  years  ago." 

"Doesn't  look  like  your  work." 

"It  isn't." 

"Who  did  it?" 

"A  pupil  of  mine." 

"Girl?" 

Mac  nodded,  replaced  the  sketch  on  the 
wall  and  sank  into  his  chair  again. 

"Only   pupil    I    ever   had.      She   and   her 
mother  had  spent  the  winter  in   Munich — 
that's  where  I  met  her." 
[281  ] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

"It  is  signed  'Lucerne,'  "  I  said. 

"Yes,  I  followed  her  there." 

"To  teach?" 

"No;  because  I  loved  her." 

The  announcement  came  so  suddenly  that 
for  a  moment  I  could  not  answer.  He  often 
gave  me  his  confidence,  and  I  thought  I  knew 
his  life,  but  this  was  news  to  me.  I  had  al 
ways  suspected  that  some  love  affair  had 
sweetened  and  mellowed  his  nature,  but  he 
always  avoided  the  subject  and  I  had,  of 
course,  never  pressed  my  inquiries.  If  he  was 
ready  to  tell  me  now  I  was  willing  to  listen 
with  open  ears. 

"You  loved  her,  Mac?"  I  said  simply. 

"Yes,  as  a  boy  loves;  without  thought — 
crazily — only  that  one  idea  in  his  mind; 
ready  to  die  for  her;  no  sleep;  sometimes  a 
whole  day  without  tasting  a  mouthful;  float 
ing  on  soap-bubbles.  Ah !  we  never  love  that 
way  but  once.  It  was  all  burned  out  of  me 
though,  that  summer.  I've  just  lived  on  ever 
[282] 


AROUND    THE    DYING    EMBERS 

since — painting  a  little,  nursing  these  old 
logs,  hobnobbing  with  you  boys;  getting  older 
— most  forty  now — getting  poorer." 

"And  did  she  love  you,  Mac?" 

"Yes,  same  way.  Only  she  got  over  it  and 
I  didn't." 

"Some  other  fellow?" 

"No,  her  father.  Oh,  there's  no  use  going 
into  it !  But  sometimes  when  I  do  my  level 
best  and  put  my  heart  into  a  thing,  as  I  have 
done  into  that  picture  at  the  Academy,  or  as 
I  poured  it  out  to  that  girl  in  that  old  garden 
at  Lucerne,  and  it  all  comes  to  naught,  I  lose 
my  grip  for  a  time  and  feel  like  putting  my 
foot  through  my  canvases  and  hiring  out 
somewhere  for  a  dollar  a  day." 

I  made  no  comment.  My  long  years  of 
intimacy  with  my  friend  had  taught  me  never 
to  interrupt  him  when  he  was  in  one  of  these 
moods,  and  never  to  ask  him  any  question 
outside  the  trend  of  his  thoughts. 

"Self-made,  dominating  man,  her  father; 
[283] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

began  life  as  a  brass-moulder.  'Worked  with 
my  hands,  sir,'  he  would  tell  me,  holding  out 
his  stubs  of  fingers.  Didn't  want  any  loafers 
and  spongers  around  him.  He  didn't  say 
that  to  me,  of  course,  but  he  did  to  her.  The 
mother  was  different,  like  the  daughter;  she 
believed  in  me.  She  believed  in  anything 
Nell  liked.  Behind  in  her  music — that's 
what  she  came  to  Munich  for;  and  when  she 
wanted  to  paint,  hunted  me  up  to  teach  her. 
She  was  eighteen  and  I  was  twenty-three. 
Well,  you  can  fill  in  the  rest.  Every  day, 
you  know;  sometimes  at  my  hole  in  the  wall, 
sometimes  at  her  apartment.  Went  on  all 
winter.  In  May  he  came  over  and  wired 
them  to  meet  him  in  Lucerne.  We  tried  part 
ing;  sat  up  half  the  night,  we  three,  talking 
it  over — the  dear  mother  helping.  She  loved 
us  both  by  that  time !  I  tried  it  for  two  days 
and  then  locked  up  my  place  and  started. 
That  old  garden  was  where  we  met  and  where 
we  continued  to  meet.  He  came  down  one 
[284] 


AROUND    THE    DYING    EMBERS 

morning  to  see  what  we  were  doing;  we  were 
doing  that  sketch — had  been  doing  it  for  two 
weeks.  Some  days  it  got  a  brushful  of  paint 
and  some  days  it  didn't.  You  know  how 
hard  you  would  work  when  the  girl  you  loved 
best  in  the  world  sat  beside  you  looking  up 
into  your  face.  Sometimes  the  dear  mother 
would  be  with  us,  and  sometimes  she  would 
make  believe  she  was.  In  the  intervals  she 
was  working  on  the  old  gentleman,  trying  to 
break  it  to  him  easy.  'You  have  worked  all 
your  life,'  she  would  say  to  him,  'and  you 
have,  outside  of  me,  only  two  things  left— 
your  money  and  your  daughter.  The  money 
won't  make  her  happy  unless  there  is  some 
body  to  share  it  with  her.  This  boy  loves 
her;  he  is  clean' — I'm  just  quoting  her  words, 
old  man;  I  was  in  those  days — 'honest,  has 
an  honorable  profession,  and  will  succeed  the 
better  once  he  has  Nellie  to  help  him  and 
your  money  to  relieve  his  mind  for  the  time 
of  anxiety.  When  he  becomes  famous,  as  he 
[285] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

is  sure  to  be,  he  will  return  it  to  you  with 
interest.'  That  was  the  sort  of  talk,  and  it 
occurred  about  every  day.  Nellie  would  hear 
it  and  add  her  voice,  and  we  would  talk  it 
over  in  the  garden. 

"One  day  he  came  down  himself.  The 
garden  was  up  the  hill  behind  the  Schweitzer- 
hoff — you  remember  it — in  one  of  those 
smaller  hotels — Lucerne  was  crowded. 

"  'Let  me  see  what  you  two  are  doing,'  he 
said,  with  a  sort  of  police-officer  air. 

"I  turned  the  easel  toward  him.  The 
sketch  was  about  as  you  see  it — all  except  the 
signature  and  the  word  'Lucerne' — that  I 
added  afterward. 

"  'How  long  have  you  been  at  this?' 

"  'About  two  weeks,'  I  said.  I  thought 
I'd  give  it  its  full  time,  so  as  to  prove  to  him 
how  carefully  it  had  been  painted. 

"  'Two  weeks,  eh?'  he  repeated  slowly. 
'Done  anything  else?' 

"  'No.' 

[286] 


AROUND    THE    DYING    EMBERS 

'"What's  it  worth?' 

"  'Well,  it's  only  a  study,  sir.' 

'"Well,  but  what's  it  worth?' 

"I  thought  for  a  moment,  and  then,  know 
ing  how  he  valued  everything  by  his  own 
standard,  said: 

1  'I  should  think,  perhaps,  fifty  dollars, 
when  it's  finished.' 

"  'That's  at  the  rate  of  twenty-five  dollars 
a  week,  isn't  it?  A  little  over  three  dollars  a 
day.  I  earned  more  than  that,  young  man, 
when  I  was  younger  than  you,  and  I  was 
making  something  that  was  sold  before  I 
turned  a  hand  to  it.  You've  got  to  shop  your 
things  around  till  you  sell  'em.  Come  into 
the  house,  Nellie,  I  want  to  speak  to  you.' 

"Brutal,  wasn't  it?  I  have  hated  his  kind 
ever  since.  Money!  Money!  Money! 
You'd  think  the  only  thing  in  life  was  the 
accumulation  of  dollars.  Flowers  bloom, 
mists  curl  up  mountain  sides,  brooks  laugh  in 
the  sunlight,  birds  sing,  and  children  romp 
[287] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

and  play.  There  is  poverty  and  suffering  and 
death ;  there  are  stricken  hearts  needing  help ; 
kind  words  to  speak;  famishing  minds  to  edu 
cate;  there  is  art,  and  science,  and  music — 
Nothing  counts.  Money!  Money!  Money! 
I'm  sick  of  it!" 

"And  that  ended  it  with  the  girl?"  I 
asked,  without  moving  my  head  from  my 
hand. 

"Yes,  practically.  She  went  to  Paris  and 
I  went  back  to  Munich.  I  felt  as  if  my  heart 
had  been  torn  out  of  me;  like  a  plant  twisted 
up  by  the  roots.  The  letters  came — first 
every  day,  then  once  or  twice  a  week,  then  at 
long  intervals.  You  won't  believe  it,  old 
man,  but  do  you  know  that  wound  never 
healed  for  years;  hasn't  yet,  parts  of  it. 
Shams,  flaunted  wealth,  society — all  irritate 
it,  and  me.  It  seemed  so  cruel,  so  damned 
stupid.  What  counts  but  love,  I  would  say 
to  myself  over  and  over  again.  If  I  had  a 
million  dollars,  what  better  off  would  I  be? 
[288] 


AROUND    THE    DYING    EMBERS 

If  we  were  both  on  a  desert  island  without 
a  cent  we  could  be  happy  together,  and  if  we 
had  a  million  apiece  and  didn't  love  each 
other  we  would  be  miserable.  Quixotic,  I 
know,  indefensible,  out  of  date  with  modern 
methods,  but  I'd  give  my  career  if  more  of 
that  sort  of  doctrine  saturated  the  air  we 
breathe." 

"You  saw  her  again?" 

"Yes,  once  in  Paris,  driving  with  her  hus 
band.  This  was  about  five  years  ago.  She 
didn't  see  me,  although  I  stood  within  ten 
feet  of  her.  He  was  much  older,  older  than 
I  am  now,  I  should  think.  Commonplace 
sort  of  fellow — see  a  dozen  like  him  any 
morning  on  the  Avenue  going  down  to  Wall 
Street.  Only  her  eyes  were  left,  and  the 
fluff  of  hair  about  her  forehead.  She  made 
no  impression  on  me;  she  wasn't  the  woman 
I  loved.  My  memories  were  of  a  girl  in  the 
garden,  all  in  white,  her  hair  about  her  shoul 
ders,  the  molten  sunlight  splashed  here  and 
[289] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

there,  the  cool  shadow  tones  between  the  drip 
pings  of  gold.  And  the  sound  of  her  voice, 
and  the  way  she  raised  her  eyes  to  mine  !  No, 
it  never  comes  but  once.  It  is  the  bloom  on 
the  peach,  the  flush  of  dawn,  never  repeated 
in  any  other  sky;  the  thrill  of  the  first  kiss  at 
the  altar,  the  cry  of  the  first  child.  Yours! 
Yours !  for  ever  and  ever ! 

"Talking  like  a  first-class  idiot,  am  I 
not,  old  man?  But  I  can't  help  it.  And  I 
get  so  lonely  for  it  sometimes !  Often  when 
you  fellows  go  home  and  I  am  left  alone  at 
night  I  draw  up  by  this  fire  and  build  castles 
in  the  coals.  And  I  see  so  many  things:  the 
figure  of  a  woman,  the  uplifted  hands  of 
children,  paths  leading  to  low  porticos,  gar 
dens  with  tall  flowers  along  their  paths,  an 
arm  about  my  neck  and  a  warm  cheek  held 
close  to  mine.  I  know  I  am  only  half  living 
tucked  up  here  pegging  away,  and  that  I 
ought  to  shake  myself  loose  and  go  out  into 
the  world  more  and  see  what  it  is  made  of. 
[290] 


AROUND    THE    DYING    EMBERS 

In  a  few  years  I'll  be  frozen  fast  into  my 
habits  like  an  old  branch  in  a  stream  when  the 
winter's  cold  strikes  it.  Only  you  and  the 
other  boys  and  the  fire  keep  me  young." 

"Have  you  never  met  anybody  since,  Mac, 
you  cared  for?"  I  had  braced  myself  for 
that  question,  wondering  how  he  would 
take  it. 

"Yes,  once,  but  she  never  knew  it.  I  had 
nothing — why  begin  over  again?  It  would 
have  turned  out  like  the  other — worse.  Then 
I  was  too  young,  now  I'm  too  old.  Besides, 
she's  on  the  other  side  of  the  water;  lives 
there." 

"She  liked  you?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  Women  are  hard  to 
understand.  I  never  abuse  their  confidence 
when  they  trust  me,  and  they  generally  do 
trust  me  when  I  get  close  to  them.  I  seem 
always  to  be  the  big  brother  to  them  and  so 
they  let  themselves  go,  knowing  I  won't  mis 
understand.  Women  like  me,  they  don't  love 
[  291  ] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

me — great  difference.  A  lot  of  men  make 
this  mistake,  thinking  a  woman  is  in  love  with 
them  when  she  only  wants  to  be  kind.  She 
can't  always  be  on  the  defensive  and  still  be 
natural.  The  greatest  relief  that  can  come 
to  one  of  them  is  to  find  that  the  man  whom 
she  wants  only  as  a  companion  is  contented 
to  be  that  and  nothing  more  and  won't  take 
advantage  of  her  confidence.  So  I  say  I 
don't  know.  She  was  a  human  kind  of  a 
girl,  this  one — real  human." 

Here  Mac  paused  for  an  instant,  his  eyes 
on  the  fast-dying  embers — as  if  he  were  re 
calling  the  girl  more  clearly  to  his  mind. 
"Had  a  heart  for  things  outside  of  her  own 
affairs.  Girl  a  man  could  tie  up  to.  Human, 
I  tell  you — real  human!" 

"Follow  it  up,  Mac?"  He  had  volun 
teered  nothing  about  her  personality,  and  I 
dared  not  ask. 

"No,  let  it  go.  I've  been  hoping  I'd  make 
a  hit  some  time  and  then  maybe  I'd — no, 
[292] 


AROUND    THE    DYING    EMBERS 

don't  talk  about  it  any  more.  Listen!  who's 
that  coming  upstairs?  That's  Woods,  I 
know  his  step.  Happy  fellow !  Hear  his 
whistle — he  must  have  got  another  order  for 
a  full-length;  nothing  like  powder-puff  teas 
for  encouraging  American  art,  my  boy,"  and 
a  smile  crept  over  Mac's  face,  which  broad 
ened  into  a  laugh  when  he  added,  "I'm  begin 
ning  to  think  that  a  course  in  cooking  is  as 
necessary  for  a  painter  as  a  course  in  per 
spective." 

The  expected  arrival  was  by  this  time  beat 
ing  a  rat-a-tat-too  on  the  Chinese  screen,  his 
whistle  more  shrill  than  ever. 

"Come  in,  you  pampered  child  of  fash 
ion!  "  cried  Mac,  the  sound  of  Woods's  joy 
ous  step  having  completely  changed  the  cur 
rent  of  his  thoughts.  "Stop  that  racket,  I 
tell  you.  We  know  you've  got  another  por 
trait,  but  don't  split  our  ears  over  it." 

A  black  slouch  hat  rose  slowly  above  the 
edge  of  the  screen,  then  a  lock  of  hair,  and 

[  293  1 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

then  a  round  fat  face  in  a  broad  grin.  It  was 
Boggs ! 

"Thought  you  were  Woods,"  cried  Mac. 

"I'm  aware  of  that  idiotic  mistake  on  your 
part,  great  and  masterful  painter,"  burst  out 
Boggs,  bowing  grandiloquently. 

"You're  not  half  so  good-looking  as 
Woods,  you  fat  woodchuck,"  shouted  back 
Mac. 

"I  am  aware  of  it,  great  and  masterful 
painter,  but  I  am  infinitely  more  valuable.  I 
carry  priceless  things  about  me.  In  fact  I'm 
just  chuck-full  of  priceless  things.  Shake  me 
and  I'll  exude  glad  tidings.  Marvellous 
events  are  happening  at  the  Academy.  I 
have  just  left  there,  and  I  know!  The  main 
stairway  is  in  the  hands  of  a  mob  of  disap 
pointed  millionnaires  pressing  up  toward  the 
South  Room.  Every  art  critic  in  town  is 
clinging  to  the  columns  craning  his  head. 
Brown  is  in  a  collapse,  his  body  stretched  out 
on  one  of  the  green  sofas.  All  eyes  are  fast- 
[  294] 


AROUND    THE    DYING    EMBERS 

ened — even  Brown's  glazed  peepers — on  a 
small  yellow  card  slipped  into  the  lower  left- 
hand  corner  of  a  canvas  occupying  the  centre 
of  the  south  wall.  Before  it,  down  on  his 
knees,  pouring  out  his  heart  in  thankfulness, 
is  the  happy  purchaser,  the  tears  rolling  down 
his  cheeks,  his " 

"Boggs,  what  the  devil  are  you  talking 
about!"  cried  Mac,  a  sudden  light  breaking 
out  on  his  face.  "Do  you  mean — 

"I  do,  most  masterful  painter — I  mean 
just  that!  Toot  the  hewgag!  Bang  the 
lyre!  The  'East  River'  is  sold!" 

"Sold!" 

"SOLD!  you  duffer!" 

"Who  to?"  Mac's  voice  had  an  unsteady 
tremor  in  it. 

"To  Pitkins's  friend,  the  banker.  He's 
wild  about  it.  Says  he's  been  looking  for 
something  of  yours  ever  since  the  night  he 
was  here,  and  only  knew  you  had  a  picture 
on  exhibition  when  he  read  Cook's  abuse  of 
[  295  1 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

it  in  yesterday's  paper.  And  that  isn't  all ! 
No  sooner  had  the  'Sold'  card  been  slipped 
into  the  frame  than  Mr.  Blodgett  came  in; 
swore  he  had  been  intending  to  buy  the  'East 
River'  for  his  gallery  ever  since  the  show 
opened;  offered  an  advance  of  five  hundred 
dollars  to  the  banker,  who  laughed  at  him; 
and  then  in  despair  bought  your  other  pict 
ure,  'The  Storm,'  hung  on  the  top  line.  Both 
sold,  O  most  masterful  painter!  All  to 
gether  now,  gentlemen — 

'  'Should  auld  acquaintance  be  for 
got — '  "  and  Boggs's  voice  rang  out  in  the 
tune  he  knew  Mac  loved  best. 

Mac  dropped  into  his  chair.  The  news 
thrilled  him  in  more  ways  than  one.  Certain 
vague,  hopeless  plans  could  now,  perhaps,  be 
carried  out;  plans  he  had  driven  from  his 
mind  as  soon  as  they  had  taken  shape: 
Holland  for  one,  which  seemed  nearer 
of  realization  now  than  ever.  So  did  some 
others. 

[296] 


AROUND    THE    DYING    EMBERS 

"Millionnaires  have  their  uses,  Mac,  after 
all,"  laughed  Marny. 

"Yes,  but  this  fellow  was  an  exception. 
He  filled  my  mug  and — 

" — And  your  pocket,"  added  Boggs; 
"don't  forget  that,  you  ingrate.  Again — all 
together,  gentlemen — 

"  'Should  auld  acquaintance  be  for- 
got '  " 

This  time  Boggs  sang  the  couplet  to  the 
end,  Mac  and  all  of  us  joining  in. 

When  all  the  others  had  gone  I  still  kept 
my  chair.  There  was  one  thing  more  I 
wanted  to  know.  Mac  was  on  his  feet,  rest 
lessly  pacing  the  room,  a  quickness  in  his 
step,  a  buoyant  tone  in  his  voice  that  I  had 
not  noticed  all  winter. 

"Sit  down  here,  old  man,  and  let  me  ask 
you  a  question." 

"No,"  answered  Mac,  "fire  it  at  me  here. 
I'm  too  happy  to  sit  down.     What  is  it?" 
[  297] 


THE    WOOD    FIRE    IN    No.    3 

"Was  that  human  girl  you  spoke  of,  who 
lives  abroad,  the  one  in  the  steamer  chair 
with  the  red  roses  in  her  lap?" 

Mac  stopped  and  laid  his  hand  on  my 
shoulder. 

"Yes;  I  got  a  letter  from  her  this  morn- 
ing." 

"And  you  are  going  over?" 

"By  the  first  steamer,  old  man." 


THE    END 


[298] 


Books  by  F*  Hopkinson  Smith 

PUBLISHED  BY  CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

AT  CLOSE  RANGE 

Illustrated.     lamo.     $1.50 


CONTENTS 

A  Night  Out  A  Point  of  Honor 

An  Extra  Blanket  Simple  Folk 

A  Medal  of  Honor         "Old  Sunshine" 
TheRajahof  Bungpore  A  Pot  of  Jam 
The  Soldo  of  the  Castellani 


"A  collection  of  good  stories.  .  .  .  Not  to  have  read  the 
book  is  to  miss  a  treat." — Cincinnati  Times-Star. 

"In  this  book  Mr.  Smith  has  done  some  of  his  best 
and  most  finished  literary  work." — New  York  Globe. 

"He  has  set  down  with  humorous  compassion  and 
wit  the  real  life  that  we  live  every  day." 

—  The  Independent. 

"Mr.  Smith's  cheery  optimism,  spiced  with  character 
istic  shrewdness  and  humor,   is  in  refreshing  contrast  to 
much  of  the   fashionable  fiction   of  the  day." 

—  The  Living  Age. 
"These  simple  tales  contain  more  of  the  real  art  of 

character-drawing  than  a  score  of  novels  of  the  day." 

— New  York  Evening  Post. 

"They  are  like  nine  chapters  of  one  interesting  story." 

— Boston   Courier. 


BOOKS   BY  F.   HOPKINSON   SMITH 

"  The  Thackeray  of  American  fiction." 

— Boston  Herald, 

THE 

NOVELS,  STORIES 
AND  SKETCHES 

OF 

F.  HOPKINSON  SMITH 

Beacon  Edition.     In  Twelve  Volumes 

"  He  has  always  had  unquestioning  faith  in  the  sig 
nificance  and  interest  of  the  simple,  universal  human 
experiences  as  they  come  to  normal,  brave,  affectionate, 
gentle-mannered,  or  robust,  untrained  men  and  women. 

"As  he  looks  at  nature  so  he  looks  at  man  :  with 
clear  vision,  with  sympathy  rather  than  curiosity  ;  with 
an  eye  for  the  fine  things  in  the  rugged  man  and  the 
vigorous,  sinewy,  self-sustaining  woman,  and  for  the 
natural  virtues,  the  deep  tenderness,  the  true-heartedness 
in  the  man  of  long  descent  and  the  woman  of  gentle 
breeding. 

"  His  style  is  singularly  concise,  exact,  compact  ; 
possessed  of  a  vitality  which  uses  various  arts  of  ex 
pression;  his  style  is  notable  for  concentration,  solidity, 
reality." — HAMILTON  W.  MABIE. 

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